Infinite Visibility
by TheFicChick
Summary: "Bella, I'm not perfect." "I've loved perfect before, and he broke me anyway." (A "Twilight"/"Remember Me" crossover.)
1. Prologue

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M

**Acknowledgement: **Thanks, as always, to HollettLA. And to Mully Hollett, who so graciously shares her.

_A/N: A few housekeeping items before we get started:_

_This is a "Twilight"/ "Remember Me" crossover. If you haven't seen "Remember Me" and don't want to be spoiled, I suggest you avoid continuing with this story. If you have seen "Remember Me" and are familiar with how it ended, you will understand the possible triggers that may exist in this story. If you are unsure, please feel free to PM me and I will be happy to explicate._

_Many of the song lyrics used in this story come from Bruce Springsteen's _The Rising_ album, which he wrote in the aftermath of the events of September 11, 2001._

* * *

**Infinite Visibility**

"_We'll let blood build a bridge over mountains draped in stars_

_I'll meet you on the ridge between these worlds apart_

_We've got this moment now to live, then it's all just dust and dark_

_Let's let love give what it gives."_

* * *

**Prologue**

Even after all these years, a crystalline sky is still the first thing I remember. That perfect, uninterrupted expanse of bright cornflower blue, cloudless and idyllic, a world-famous cityscape sparkling beneath a crisp Indian summer sun. Today's sky is a similar shade of cerulean, but puffy white clouds sail idly overhead, their reflections sliding along mirrored skyscraper façades.

The soft roar of cascading water is nearly enough to mute the sounds of the city around me: the intermittent rumble of the subway underground, the background roar of traffic like blood through the veins of city streets, the scrapes and clicks of pedestrian traffic. If the nearby trees had leaves, a small breeze rustling them would likely be enough to drown out the urban pulse entirely. As it is, the few leaves that cling to the limbs are brittle and brown, remnants of a fall long past, the branches otherwise starkly barren. The young trees are uniform in size, organized in rows like soldiers awaiting the signal from Mother Nature that the long, harsh winter is over and they can burst back to life.

The only perennial that doesn't seem to belong is a weary warrior to this sentry of enlisted saplings. A twisted knot of metal and rubber embraces its mangled girth to keep it upright, and great, gaping craters dot the trunk where boughs were ripped away. Allegedly, it will bloom in late spring; I doubt I'll see it flower. Still, despite its scars, its imperfections, I suppose there is consolation to be found in the simple fact of its survival, however dismembered.

I tip my head back and the crisp not-quite-spring sunshine is bright, but not yet warm enough to counteract the chill of cold stone beneath me. Visible through the branches of the rescued tree before me is a pillar of glass that rises into the sky like a sword. A giant mirror echoing the day's idyll, it is a tower of perfection until the top, where a crane hovers and the highest floors remain unfinished, the structure's bones visible from the outside. As I contemplate its incompletion, my eyes refocus on something in the closer distance: a small bird's nest in the uppermost branches of the Callery pear, the wounded soldier tree braced by steel ropes and knots. _The Survivor Tree_, memorial literature has christened it.

There are no birds in sight, save the ever-present pigeons, but the nest is there, made more obvious by the lack of leaves or blooms on the branches – a clump of debris salvaged and culled and relocated just out of reach. I rise, warm blood rushing to the backs of my thighs as I part ways with the cold stone, and approach the gnarled tree, around which a cluster of people stand with cameras and iPhones, snapping pictures and reaching out to touch the places on the tree where limbs have been lost – out of curiosity, grief, sympathy, or voyeurism I can't be sure, but I step closer to consider the tree without touching it. It isn't until I'm standing right beside the silver steel ring that creates a mockery of a barrier around it that I note the tiny almost-buds peeking out along the surviving branches. My eyes flick back up to the nest once more before I step back, absorbing the image of old, damaged tree in foreground, new, shining tower in background. Someone knocks into my shoulder and mutters what sounds like an apology in a language I don't understand. I nod, move on.

Stepping toward the nearest of the two square pools, I can feel the faintest spray on my face, very nearly unnoticeable. Closing my eyes, I let my hipbones rest against the bronze parapet, breathe in the faintly damp air. When I open them, a barely-there rainbow appears in the mist cast off by the falling water. The sky is a perfect, robin's egg blue, its brilliance reflected in the gleaming new architecture bordering this now-open space. Mirrored glass reflecting light, reflecting perfect blue skies, reflecting billowing white clouds and bright spring sunshine. Perfect tranquility where there was once chaotic devastation.

I squint as I stare upward, the parapet unforgiving against my bony hips, and to either side of me, people reach out and touch engraved names with single fingertips and entire palms. I don't touch the name etched in front of me; instead, I bring my palm up to my sternum and press it flat against the space where my heart beats steadily in my chest beneath wool coat and fleece top and cotton bra before sliding it down and beneath my arm, above xylophone ribs and inked skin. My face still tipped toward the sky, I close my eyes and remember. A perfect blue canvas marred by twin curls of acrid smoke, then a billowing cloud of dust, the everyday sounds of the city yielding to the roar of destruction and pealing screams of terror.

As I stand blind, hand registering only the faintest echo of my own heartbeat, I do what I've made it my life's mission not to do: I look back.

I remember.


	2. Chapter 1

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M

**Acknowledgement: **To HollettLA, who is willing to take this trip with me even though it might hurt. As the "social media kids are saying these days…" ILY. xo

_Housekeeping note: I play around with timelines a little bit here. In this story, the events of "Twilight" and "New Moon" take place in 1999, not in the 2000s, which is how that universe intersects with the "Remember Me" universe._

* * *

**PART ONE**

"_Time can come and take away the pain_

_But I just want my memories to remain_

_To hear your voice_

_To see your face_

_There's not one moment I'd erase_

_You are a guest here now."_

_(Regina Spektor, "How")_

* * *

**Chapter One**

"So, you've uh…got everything, then?"

Bella hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder and nods once at her father, whose hands are buried deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. She can tell by the shape of the outlines, the visibility of his knuckles, that both hands are clenched into fists. "Yeah," she says aloud. They don't share many words, she and her father, so she decides on impulse to cram a few more into these last moments. "Think so." Even if she didn't, the departures terminal at SeaTac is hardly the venue to recall a forgotten toothbrush, book, sweater. As if his thoughts have followed the same path as hers, he shifts his feet, rubber-soled hiking boots squeaking on the linoleum floor.

"If not, I can send it to you."

"Okay," she agrees, though she can think of nothing that might still linger in her childhood bedroom that would warrant 3,000-mile, cross-country trip. The things she left behind, she left for a reason. She was able to deflect her father's surprise at her rather minimal luggage with the dual-pronged logic that she hadn't been in Forks long enough to amass that many belongings and that she wanted to travel light, given the distance. The unspoken truth – that she wants to remember as little about her time in the rain-soaked, perpetually cloudy town as possible – would only hurt him, and Charlie is the last person who deserves her resentment. She nods again at her father, goodbye looming large in the space between them and freeing twin balloons in her chest: one of sadness, one of relief.

He mirrors her nod. "Well, all right then." Dark eyes – the same as hers, fringed with the same dark lashes and bracketed with crow's feet she hasn't yet earned – look past her to the line of travelers clutching photo IDs and boarding passes, some as laden as pack mules while more frequent travelers shift their feet and clutch sleek, minimal carry-on bags. "Should probably get a move on."

She glances over her shoulder before bringing her gaze back to him. "Yeah. Probably."

"All right then," he says again. Before she can step away, his hands quick-draw out of his pockets and curl around her thin shoulders, drawing her rather forcefully into his chest. She is thrust unwillingly into a whirlwind of memories of countless similar embraces over the past year, in which her desperate sobs cut through the night as pools of tears drenched the worn cotton t-shirt covering his too-soft, too-warm, too-human chest. "You be careful, Bella, do you hear me?" he murmurs into the space above her head, lips pressed to her hair, words punctuated by the breaths that rain down on her scalp as his last-minute parental advice comes rapid-fire and laced with a barely-there thread of distress. "Be smart. Make good decisions. Take care of yourself."

"I will," she promises, voice once again muffled by his shirt. "Promise."

Charlie's perceptions of predators are the same ones shared by all fathers of teenage daughters: murderers, rapists, drug dealers. His might be ever-so-slightly more specific – and more valid – given his career path, and Bella leans slightly into his chest, memories of red irises and death-cold skin and gleaming white teeth dancing at the back of her mind.

He tightens his hold on his daughter for the space of two breaths before releasing her; she steps back to look into his familiar face, his suspiciously bright eyes. "I'm just a plane ride away," he reminds her, voice rough, and she nods, even though the idea of Charlie boarding a plane and flying across the country is an absurd one. Nearly as absurd as the idea of him traversing the streets of Manhattan.

"Okay," she says again, hitching her knapsack higher once more.

"I love you, Bella," he says, and despite the fact that he looks like he wishes he could pretend he never said the words aloud, his dark eyes are painfully earnest.

"Love you too, Dad."

He gives a resolute nod, as if they have just completed a particularly awkward business transaction, before forcing a cheery smile to his face. "Have fun out there," he says, and his voice is laced with the same false bravado as his smile.

"Thanks," Bella replies, mildly amused by his choice of words. _Out there_, as if she is going to college on Mars instead of on the opposite coast. As if Mars were an option. "I will."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Not too much fun," he amends, and she can see worst-case-scenario imaginings of _Girls Gone Wild-_style parties and alcohol-sodden hijinks flashing through his cop mind.

"Of course not." She takes a step backward. "See you at Christmas."

"Christmas," he echoes, and she turns to take her place at the end of the security line. Charlie hovers, watching as she hands over her boarding pass and identification, moves into one of the security lines, tosses her backpack on the conveyor belt that will take it through the X-ray machine, and makes her way through the metal detector. It isn't until she is safely beyond the checkpoint that her father, evidently acknowledging that his shift is over, melts into the crowd of people on the other side of the barrier. She stares at the space where he was standing for a few moments, picturing him heading back to his cruiser, his house, his solitary life. A life he had enjoyed rather peacefully until she suddenly returned to Forks eighteen months ago, fell in love with a vampire, got her heart broken by said vampire, and essentially sleepwalked through her senior year of high school before graduating and opting to attend college as far away as possible without leaving the country. A brief pang of guilt-ridden sadness pierces her, and she hopes as she peers unseeingly at the other parents, spouses, children left behind that Charlie can reclaim the relatively blissful, tranquil life he knew before her reappearance.

The gate is surprisingly populated for a mid-morning Wednesday flight, and she weaves her way through the maze of travelers and carry-on luggage to find a seat near the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which gray skies leak drizzle onto jets and tarmac and jetways.

"Where are you headed?" comes a friendly voice mere moments after she settles into one of the available leather seats. She looks up to see a boy close to her age peering at her over a magazine.

"New York," she replies, unearthing a paperback from her bag. "You?" she asks, uninterested in the answer.

"Chicago," he replies, and she merely nods before opening the book, not caring that the tacit dismissal might be interpreted as rude. _Chicago. Spanish flu. Edward._ She squints at the words on the well-thumbed page to bring them into focus, wrestling her mind back to the story like a mother attempting to contain a wriggling, squirming toddler. She takes a breath and shoves the uninvited memories away.

_New start,_ she reminds herself. _Don't look back._

She does, though. Just once.

As the plane roars down the runway and drags itself away from solid ground and into the air, she peers down through the lightly misting rain at the exceedingly green landscape shrinking in increments beneath it. For the duration of the plane's ascent, she watches as the vibrant green growth is dulled in degrees by the ever-present gray mist hovering above it, gradually muting the landscape as the distance between plane and ground grows. When the air beneath the jet is the same as the air around it – a dull, unremarkable shade of ash similar to concrete – she sits back in her seat and lets her eyes fall closed.

_Concrete jungle, here I come._

Her ears pop, the plane levels out, and she retrieves her paperback from the carry-on stowed beneath the seat in front of her, losing herself in words as the country slides by miles below her.

* * *

When she bolts awake one night toward the end of September, sheets knotted and pillow damp, her roommate, Kelsey, is kneeling on the edge of the bed, her cool hands curled around Bella's shoulders, soft voice coaxing her back to awareness.

"Bella? Bell, you're dreaming, hon. Wake up."

Bella swims to the surface of consciousness, neck damp with sweat and throat raw from screaming. She wonders idly how a person can scream long enough to inflame her vocal cords without waking up as she peers through the near-darkness into Kelsey's concerned face, into her searching eyes that, in the darkness, are as black as night. She swallows, wincing as her aching throat protests, and places a clammy hand atop Kelsey's where it still rests on her shoulder. "You're okay," her roommate murmurs, and Bella is immediately grateful for her soothing voice and gentle hand and simple presence as memories from her dream assault her.

_Edward. Alice. Victoria. James._

_Pain. Blood. Loss._

Her jackhammering heart slows in increments as she attempts to regulate her breaths, and when Kelsey is convinced that she's awake, she smoothes a hand over Bella's hair and peers into her face for a beat before crossing the room to the small microfridge in the corner and pulling out a bottle of Poland Spring, uncapping it as she crosses back. The cold water is a balm to her raw throat, and Bella nods her gratitude, too afraid of what her voice might sound like if she tries to speak aloud. They sit in silence, facing each other in the combined light of the full moon and the faint glow of the city beyond their window, until Bella's eyes begin to droop and Kelsey very nearly tucks her in. As gentle hands fold the sheet and comforter snugly around her form in much the same way as her father did on nights she awoke in similar distress, an unfamiliar knot appears in her aching throat, and she wonders if it's possible to be homesick for a place she never wants to go back to.

The next morning, Bella tells Kelsey about Edward, boiling it down to the most salient of points while trying not to downplay the significance. In this moment, her dream still fresh and vivid in her mind, heart and throat still raw, she feels a sudden, desperate need for someone in her new life to understand – at least in part – some of the scars that remain from her old life. She needs someone to understand that she's broken, even if she's healing.

"He was…perfect," she says, sitting cross-legged atop her comforter, pulling absently at a loose thread. Kelsey is sitting facing her, their postures mirror images, watching and listening intently. "Too perfect for me," Bella adds. "He belonged to a world I couldn't join – his whole family did – and so he left me. Suddenly, with no warning, and I'll never see or hear from him again." Surprising, she realizes, that the magnitude of Edward's all-too-brief presence in her life can be condensed to four short, bare sentences. When she looks up, Kelsey is frowning.

"Like the mob?" she asks, the smooth, mocha skin of her forehead pulled into creases, and if it weren't for her earnestness and the subject matter, Bella thinks she might have laughed.

"Not the mob," she replies. "Though that's not a bad analogy." She makes a mental note to remember that in case she's ever forced to recount the Cullens' role in her life for anyone else's benefit; the mafia isn't a bad cover story.

Kelsey's fine-boned hand reaches out and stills Bella's where it continues to worry the thread of her blanket. "I'm really sorry," she says, and Bella is relieved and grateful that she's not pressing for more details. "I'm really, really sorry that he hurt you like that." She's so earnest, so genuine, so sympathetic, and Bella can feel tears she hasn't shed in months welling up behind her eyes.

"Thanks," she says simply, wondering if there's a similar story – minus the vampires, of course – in Kelsey's own past.

"If you ever want to talk about it," she says, and Bella nods once. "I get that talking's not really your style," she continues, her voice a degree lighter, and the small laugh that bubbles up and escapes Bella's lips does a lot to make the threat of tears recede.

"Thanks," she says again. "It's not, but I appreciate the offer."

"Can I ask one question?"

"Sure."

"Is that why you came to college so far away?"

Bella considers this, the first time anyone's asked her point-blank. She is relatively certain that Charlie – and likely most of Forks – suspected as much, but no one ever came right out and asked. "Probably in part," she admits. "I just…needed a change."

Kelsey nods, satisfied by this answer. "Well, I think you're really brave."

Bella's eyebrows leap in surprise; no one's ever called her brave before. Despite her lack of fear of the blood-drinking undead and the Quileutes-turned-werewolves, no one in her human life has ever implied that her recovery from heartbreak was anything less than expected. And though she'd only ever admit it to herself, there were times that she worried that her exodus to the opposite coast would look more like a coward's flight than a woman's passage to a new phase of life. Correctly interpreting Bella's reaction, Kelsey nods. "It's brave to make a new start, no matter the reason."

"Thank you," Bella replies, voice soft, and Kelsey nods again and squeezes her hand once before releasing it.

"And there are plenty of cute boys in New York," she adds, all gravity gone from her voice as she unfolds her long, dancer-like legs. "I'm sure we can find someone to help you cleanse your palate."

Bella laughs, feeling lighter than she has in a while. "I don't know that I'm quite there yet," she admits, despite how badly she wishes she were, and Kelsey shrugs.

"Girl, just because you don't want to chase the car doesn't mean you can't bark from the porch."

"Very true."

Kelsey gets to her feet and checks the small digital clock on the dresser. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast," Bella agrees, feeling for the first time since she crossed the threshold of her dorm room three weeks ago that they have stopped being simply roommates and have become friends.

* * *

"Gucci, Prada, Coach." It's an incessant chorus in her ear, a litany of designers delivered sotto voce as Bella makes her way along the sidewalk, eyeballing designer knockoffs as she maneuvers deftly around clusters of shoppers, slightly damp hair twisted and hidden beneath her hat but chilling her all the same. "You want Prada?" The Asian girl standing in front of her is tiny, very nearly dwarfed by the puffy black North Face parka that reaches to her knees, and Bella shakes her head and keeps walking. While she has nothing but time, she lacks the patience today to follow a woman into a back room of some side-street souvenir shop to look at knockoff designer handbags, even if she is behind on her Christmas shopping. She just wants to get Renee's sunglasses and be done with it.

Bella had no idea that when she took her mother shopping on Canal Street during her first visit to New York back in October that she was creating a monster. Renee, while never a label whore, developed a whole new appreciation for designer names when she learned she could acquire cheap imitations that were certainly convincing enough replicas to fool her friends. Lamentably, what Bella never considered when she was urging her mother to buy the five-dollar Dior sunglasses was that the woman who raised her has an unfortunate tendency to sit on, lose, and otherwise mishandle her accessories. This is the third time in as many months that she has found herself being jostled between bodies on the crowded street in Chinatown, looking for the same pair of shades that she's already replaced more times than can be believed.

"Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Coach."

Ignoring the steady soundtrack, Bella glances at each rack of sunglasses that she passes before finally spying a pair identical to the ones she purchased last month. Given that she fully anticipates a repeat performance of this debacle before the end of January, she snatches up two pairs and a third that is remarkably similar and pays for them before slipping the nondescript gray bag into her own purse and making her way back in the direction from which she has just come, eager to be out of the crush of bodies. In just over three months in the city, she has already learned that while Canal Street sucks on a good day, during the month of December, it sucks even more.

Despite the cold and the wind that whips between buildings and creates an effect not unlike a wind tunnel, the sun is bright and very nearly warm enough, so she opts to forego the subway and walk the distance back to her residence hall in the Village. Not having a class to rush to or a pile of assignments to finish, she feels oddly free in a way she hasn't since her arrival in New York at the tail end of August. In those first few weeks before the fall semester started, she was both awed and intimidated by the city that was her new home. Her navigational skills were for shit, especially in the Village, where the streets don't follow the same grid pattern as they do uptown or, in fact, any truly logical pattern at all. She rarely ventured beyond the parameters of the residence hall except in the company of her roommate, who was far more familiar with the city's geography, and once the semester started, she reverted back to the same bookworm Bella she'd been in high school, rarely taking time to explore parts of the city that weren't study lounges, libraries, classrooms, or university buildings. Today, however, with her last exam completed and final assignment ready to be handed in and a whopping four days to kill before she is scheduled to fly back to the West Coast for the winter break, she has nothing but time and freedom.

As she veers right off Sixth Avenue and onto Washington Square West, she lets her mind wander back over the past four months and forward to her pending return to Washington. If she hadn't promised her father that she'd go home for the holiday, she'd likely have opted to remain in the city. Forks, never the most appealing of destinations, looms drearier and drearier with every passing hour; it's amazing how quickly this teeming, surging, bustling city has begun to feel like home. Going back to the small town feels like trying to step back into shoes that no longer fit, and she worries about how painful the pinch will be.

On the corner of Bleecker, she stops at a street vendor for a cup of coffee to combat the slight chill of the wind; accepting the iconic blue Anthora cup, she hands the vendor an extra bill and continues her trek uptown. Despite being a sort-of native of Washington State, she doesn't doubt that wherever she ends up, she will forever favor the Greek-inspired blue cups over the white ones with the green circular logo that are becoming increasingly recognizable the world over. The truth of the matter is, Bella fits in better in the busy big city than she ever thought she would, feels more at home in a crush of people than she ever did in wide open spaces. Prior to her arrival in New York, she always believed that it took a certain kind of worldly, trendy person to survive in a place like this. She harbored visions of sleek, well-dressed, coiffed professionals marching along Fifth Avenue and bohemian artists reclined in Central Park with classic literature and tomes of poetry propped on their chests. In truth, while those creatures exist, they are in the minority.

What she has realized in four short months is that she is more like the city she now calls home than she could have imagined, could have anticipated when she stepped off a jetbridge and into the arrivals area of JFK.

The elusive truth is that New York City is just like Bella Swan in one very significant way: it is constantly trying so desperately to be what it thinks it's _supposed_ to be that sometimes it doesn't feel like what it _is._ So many people try so hard to be _New Yorkers_ that the term has lost all meaning; so many establishments try to be _quintessentially New York _that sometimes it's hard to know where to find the real thing. Similarly, she has spent so much energy trying to become the version of herself that she so badly wants to be – the version that isn't a heartbroken, angst-ridden teenager, the version that never would have been so unceremoniously left behind – that some days she's still not entirely sure who she is beneath the effort she expends.

But then, that's the other great thing about New York: it's always changing, always morphing, and no one faults it for that. It is what it is, and it makes no apologies. She finds that she likes the freedom in that, in being able to say, "This is who I am today, even if I won't be this person tomorrow."

Then, of course, there's the simple truth of population. She has heard it said that the middle of a crowd can be the loneliest place to be; on the contrary, Bella finds comfort in the presence of strangers, people who don't ask anything of you or expect anything from you, but are coexisting right alongside you, traveling orbits that may or may not intersect.

Another of her favorite things about New York: people don't look at you. Unless you full-on collide with someone on the sidewalk, no one makes eye contact or looks you in the face at all; they look past you, intent on their destination. There is freedom, she has quickly learned, in anonymity.

Once she arrives back at her sort-of home, her fingers are cold but not numb, nose and ears pink from the wind. After depositing the now-empty coffee cup in the trash can by the door, she swipes ChapStik over her lips as she dumps her bag onto the desk chair. Wiggling the computer mouse brings the monitor to life; her Buddy List is still at the top right-hand corner of the screen, the away message window just below it. Two messages have arrived since she left: one from Angela and one from Mike Newton.

"Want to catch a movie?" Bella half-turns to where Kelsey is standing just inside the still-open door to the room. She straightens, ignoring the two messages from her former classmates. Each time she does so, the guilt is a little bit less, the decision a little less conscious. Charlie and Jake are really the only people from her two years in Forks whom she has any desire to hang on to; people she wandered the Forks hallways with, went to prom with, people who knew her when she was Edward's – they're just another thing she wants to let go.

"Is there anything good out?"

Kelsey shrugs. "_Bounce_?"

A frown tugs at Bella's forehead as she tries to place it. "What's _Bounce_?"

"That Ben Affleck and Gwyneth Paltrow one?"

"Oh." She shrugs. "Your call."

Kelsey wrinkles her nose. "I know. It doesn't scream award-winner." She collapses onto the twin bed on her side of the room. "But I'm not even going to _see_ you for a full two-and-a-half weeks, so we're doing _something_."

Bella laughs at the dramatics; while she was apprehensive about having a roommate, never having been much of a girl's girl nor a joiner, she is increasingly convinced that Kelsey is the perfect one to have. If she were willing to lend thought to the comparison, she would admit that Kelsey reminds her in some ways of Alice, despite the fact that they are at the opposite ends of the physical spectrum – Kelsey's coffee-colored skin and long limbs are a far cry from Alice's translucent pallor and pixie-like size. But she never lets the comparison gather speed, as it inevitably leads her down the road she promised herself never to tread again and makes her break the one promise she made to herself before leaving Forks. _Don't look back._ "Well, we can do whatever you want," she says, turning away from the computer for good. "I'm in."

Corner Bistro is within walking distance of the dorm building, and when both girls are replete with greasy burgers and fried side dishes, they make their way to the 4th Street station. Once underground, Bella toes the stripe of school bus-yellow paint at the edge of the platform as the piercing sound of steel drums hammers at her eardrums.

"I'm all for artists showcasing their talents beneath the streets of Manhattan if they so desire, but there should be a decibel limit," Kelsey says, voicing Bella's own thoughts at a near-yell to be heard above the sounds of the Caribbean that echo off the concrete platform and station walls at a pitch and volume comparable to the scream of brakes as the Q train slides into the station.

"True story," Bella replies as they step into the crowded car and grab hold of metal poles; she gazes unseeingly at a poster for the new Everclear album plastered above the nearest window. While the idea to eat early was a good one, Kelsey's desire to head uptown to pick out a few last-minute gifts for her parents means they are now facing the unenviable task of sharing the subway with rush hour commuters, and Bella hugs the pole and tries to avoid hitting anyone with her backpack as more bodies pack into the car. "So what are you looking for?" she asks as Kelsey slides her bag down to her forearm.

"No idea," she replies as the doors slide closed with an audible sucking sound and the train begins to move. Bella focuses on keeping her knees bent to allow for the occasional pitch and lurch of the subway car as it picks up speed; Kelsey has one arm hooked around the pole between them, keeping her balance with the crook of her arm as the other rummages in the yawning cavity of her enormous hobo bag, finally emerging gripping a compact mirror whose case appears to be made of broken pieces of floral china. She flips it open and peers into it, pressing her lips together and giving her twisted hair a once-over; Bella is tempted to point out that no one looks her best beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting favored by the MTA, but she keeps quiet. Kelsey, after all, looks good regardless. Another press of her lips and she seems mollified if not satisfied, snapping the compact shut and dropping it back into her bag.

"Did you make that?" Bella asks, nodding toward the gaping mouth of her roommate's bag, and Kelsey beams.

"Yeah! I'm thinking that might be my focus next semester: broken china jewelry and accessories."

Despite being the daughter of an investment banker and a software developer and the younger sister of allegedly brilliant twin brothers who are junior pre-law students at Yale, Kelsey's upper-class upbringing rarely shows, masked by a creative mind and a free spirit that counteract a background that could have made her something else entirely. At first meeting, Bella had been intimidated by her effervescence and rather obvious familiarity with herself and what she wanted; in time, the intimidation gave way to a friendship that was equal parts affection and admiration, and only four months after meeting, if pressed, Bella would identify Kelsey as her best friend without reservation – a title she doesn't give quickly. Losing both Edward and Alice was a one-two punch, and she was nearly as wary of giving her heart to a girlfriend as she is of giving it to a boy, but Kelsey's complete lack of attention to boundaries and simultaneous tendency not to push relieved Bella of her apprehension by force.

"You should hit the Strand while I'm gone," Kelsey says as the train pauses at 23rd Street and a few passengers disembark.

"The what?"

She sighs. "I probably should have taken you before now, but frankly it's not somewhere I can spend upward of an hour, and I suspect you could kill an entire afternoon in there."

"What is it?"

Kelsey shakes her head. "I forget how truly West Coast small-town you are," she sighs, but offers an affectionate smile to cushion the blow of her words. "It's the biggest bookstore I've ever seen. The motto is 'Eighteen miles of books.'"

"Eighteen miles of books?" Bella echoes, and Kelsey nods.

"Right up your alley," she teases, and Bella laughs as she grips the metal pole between them, the tiny diamond pattern pressing itself into the flesh of her palms. "Seriously, if you need to entertain yourself before you leave, that's pretty much one whole day you can draw an 'x' through on the calendar."

"I do know how to entertain myself, you know. I was a pathetic loser with no friends long before I moved here." She tempers the words with a small smile, and Kelsey rolls her eyes.

"Don't talk about my friend that way," she mock-reprimands as the train resumes moving, and Bella's mind flashes momentarily back to the ignored instant messages that have been steadily dwindling since she let the barrage of them go unanswered throughout the fall. Though she is teasing, the description is depressingly true: with the exception of her roommate-slash-new-best-friend and Jake, her parents are pretty much the only other people with whom Bella can honestly say she has an actual ongoing relationship.

They pass the rest of the ride to the 57th Street station brainstorming ideas for Kelsey's parents – a mother whose wardrobe is limited to Fifth Avenue labels and a father whose idea of casual dress is a polo and khakis and shoes with tassels – and upon stepping off the train and heading for the exit, Bella feels not unlike a salmon swimming upstream as she attempts not to get knocked backward down the stairs by the rat racers descending into the station.

Finally emerging into the cold twilight, Kelsey tilts her head in the direction of their destination; after a full four months, Bella still isn't entirely sure of her bearings when she surfaces from underground, particularly farther uptown. "Bergdorf Goodman," Kelsey says, and Bella nods as if a luxury department store in which a pair of shoes costs nearly twice her father's monthly mortgage is a regular destination for her.

"Lead the way."

Forty-five minutes later, Kelsey is carting a small shopping bag holding a tie and a cashmere scarf, and they are headed back downtown in a train considerably less crowded than it would have been an hour earlier. "I'm really going to miss you," she says earnestly when they are sitting in red-orange plastic seats and snaking their way beneath city streets, linking her arm through Bella's.

"I'm going to miss you, too," Bella admits, suddenly uncharacteristically sad about the pending separation, and the realization breaks over her like a wave: she can breathe here. Despite the poor reputation of the quality of air in the city, she finds that she can take a deep breath, feel her lungs expand to their maximum capacity, breathe steady and even in a way she no longer can in her small West Coast hometown, where it feels as though something too heavy to bear is sitting on her chest. Involuntarily, she sucks in a long breath, as if she can somehow make it – and the warm feel of Kelsey's arm linked with hers – last until her sentence is served and she is permitted to come back.

* * *

Bella scrolls slowly through the document, rows of type sliding upward on her screen as her eyes crawl left to right, eyeballing the paper once more before she submits it to her English professor. It's the last assignment left before she can officially declare her first semester over, and she wants to be sure there are no glaring errors in the analysis of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._

As her eyes traverse the type, looking for errant commas and misused homonyms that the spellchecker might have missed, the themes and overall points of the paper are secondary to her search for more mechanical errors. Reaching the end of the document, she clicks "save" a final time before attaching it to an e-mail and sending it to her professor.

It isn't until she's curled up beneath the covers of her twin bed hours later, her packed bags sitting just inside the door to the room, Kelsey's perfectly-made bed empty against the opposite wall, that her mind wanders back to the paper and its subtheses: that Frankenstein's monstrosity is as much about his unnatural creation as his appearance; that he is a monster looking for someone to empathize with his miserable existence; that his alienation stems from a lack of belonging not only to his community but to himself.

That night is the first night since September that she dreams of Edward, the ethereal, self-proclaimed demon standing against a dreary backdrop, orchestrating his own isolation.

_This is the last time you'll ever see me. I won't come back._

It's the first night that she dreams the dream through and doesn't wake up screaming.

_It will be like I never existed. I promise._

It's the first time in all the times she's had the dream that she's still standing when he walks away.

_You just don't belong in my world, Bella._

It isn't until she's bumping along in a cab headed for JFK the following morning that the realization comes: he no longer belongs in hers, either.


	3. Chapter 2

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating:** M.

**Acknowledgement:** Thanks, always, to HollettLA, who can possess a "lingering distaste but not a loathing" for an errant comma. It is one of her too-numerous-to-count gifts. xo

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"So…you like it out there." It isn't a question, and Bella opts to ignore the undertone of disappointment in Jacob's voice as they traipse up the slight incline, stepping over frozen brush and downed limbs.

"Yeah," she replies simply, trying not to sound winded as clouds of visible breath appear at her lips before dissipating into the air. The snow is a few days old, crystallized on top by the minimal melting afforded by a brief burst of afternoon sunlight and subsequent refreezing, and their boots crunch noisily through the surface with each step. "I don't get how you're not freezing," she says, clapping her mittened hands together in a vain attempt to coax some modicum of warmth back into her frozen fingertips.

"Wolf-thing," he replies simply, holding a branch back from the trail and standing to one side to let her pass.

"But you're not a wolf right now," she argues, ducking beneath his arm.

He shrugs. "It's in the blood," he says. "The blood in the veins doesn't change just because the form does."

Her mind wants to go there – always does when blood is mentioned – but she wrangles it back to the present. "Oh." As they step clear of the brush, the ocean stretches out ahead of them, pitching and rolling, whitecaps dotting the green-gray surface. She remembers back to a mildly warmer day and launching herself from this exact spot, feeling for a brief moment as though she were flying before slipping beneath the water's surface, the cold nearly robbing her of her breath. Not a bad metaphor for the relationship that had driven her to such recklessness, now that she thinks about it.

"Don't even go there," Jacob warns her, only half joking, as if he were the mind reader. "Just because I'm hot-blooded doesn't mean I want to go for a swim in the dead of winter."

She laughs. "Noted."

They stare out at the pitching sea. "I'm glad you're happy out there," he says after a moment, his voice carrying the gentle note it always had in the months _after._ "I miss you, but I'm glad you're happy. You deserve that."

As always, his unwavering friendship, his genuine affection, are a balm to her soul, smoothing over the rough spots that crack when she goes too long without paying them any attention.

"You should come and visit," Bella offers, staring out over the choppy water. "It's a lot different."

"This is more my style," Jacob replies with a sweeping gesture at the wild growth around them, the far-reaching water beyond the drop of the cliff at their feet. "Plus…the pack."

She nods. "Right." If she didn't know better, she'd think he looked slightly regretful at the ties that bind him to La Push; she wonders if there is more to Jacob than she realizes – if he, too, harbors unspoken desires to break free. "Well, open invitation," she says, and he smiles that easy smile that she so often borrowed when she couldn't find her own.

"Noted," he echoes, and she smiles, leaning slightly into his bulky shoulder. After a beat, his arm rises and wraps around her, large fingers curling around her bicep.

"Just promise me you're careful."

"Okay, Charlie."

"You forget: if Charlie knew what I knew, you'd be attending Peninsula College and wearing a tracking device around your ankle."

This time, she laughs out loud. "Too true."

The following morning, still dressed in purple plaid flannel pajama pants and a navy blue long-sleeved thermal shirt, she sits cross-legged beside the sparsely decorated Douglas fir that has taken up temporary residence in the corner of the living room, a small pile of presents beside her: a small box with a digital camera that Bella knows will take her months to figure out how to use from Renee, a hand-knitted scarf-and-mittens set from Grandma Swan, and a woven leather friendship bracelet from Jake. She holds another small box in her lap and gently peels away a strip of the candy cane-printed wrapping paper to expose a partial picture of a gleaming silver cell phone and the Motorola logo.

"It has unlimited minutes," Charlie says, voice gruff, eyes glued to the box. "So you can always call. Anytime. For however long."

A brief pang of guilt stabs her when she realizes how seldom she called home over the course of the fall semester, how brief the conversations were when she did call. How few details about her life she has shared with her father, whose concern is plastered across his face like a shiner that no amount of Hollywood-quality makeup could hide. "Dad, this is too much."

He shakes his head. "Everyone in New York has a cell phone," he says, and she wonders idly from where he got that particular tidbit of information. "It has an address book in it so you can add phone numbers for your friends." His lips twitch beneath his moustache, eyes resolutely on the box in her hands, still half-concealed by the wrapping paper with too much tape along the seams. "The lady said you can download music for the ringtone?" This last detail comes out like a question, and Bella can see that he's reached the limits of his tech-speak ability. She rises from her place beside the so-called Christmas tree and crosses the small space, bending to wrap her arms around his neck. He leans forward in his recliner, accepting the hug and wrapping an arm across her upper back.

"Thanks, Dad."

"No excuse not to call your old man now, right?"

She grins as she pulls back. "Right."

He nods, hands draped gently over the fishing rod that Billy had told her he'd been salivating over on their last trip to Newton's. "And the bill comes to me, so no calls to China."

Bella rolls her eyes. "Come on, Dad. It's going to take me ages to get my Mandarin to the level of a full-length phone conversation." She spies a smile beneath the moustache and shifts her weight, the cell phone box propped against her hip. "Really, though. This is great. Thanks."

He nods again and grips the rod by its handle. "So's this." His eyes narrow slightly. "Expensive, though."

"Guess you better catch something that'll make it worth it, then," she replies, returning her focus to the box in her hands and peeling away the rest of the wrapping paper, trying to envision a world in which Charlie likes talking on the phone and she doesn't mind eating fish any time she comes home. It's funny, she realizes, crumpling the discarded paper in her hand, how the people we love are sometimes forced to change right along with us.

* * *

Greenwich Village is less populated than normal, and Bella wonders if that's a result of the bitter cold or the recent holiday. Having wasted no time lingering in Forks, she was on a plane back east on January 2nd, and as such has arrived back in the city three days before Kelsey is scheduled to return. Now, she wanders through Washington Square Park, hugging the new winter coat Charlie also bought her close to her frame, burying her already-chapped lips beneath the knitted scarf she has wrapped around her neck enough times to create a shield for her face. Her new messenger bag – an unexpected gift from Kelsey – bumps against her hip, relatively light given that she doesn't yet need to carry much more than a notebook and the city map she rarely consults anymore, and as she reaches the eastern edge of the park and steps onto University Place, she takes a deep breath and heads north.

Ever since Bella was a small child, books have been her escape. From picture books to chapter books to young adult novels to contemporary fiction and classic literature, she has always sought refuge in worlds beyond her own. In the months after Edward left, especially, it was Neil Gaiman and C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien: anything about imagined worlds that had no bearing on this one.

The first time she steps into the Strand, she is immediately certain that she will never want to leave. Just inside the door is a table, the surface of which is invisible beneath the pyramid of books carefully constructed atop it. Beyond that, another table similarly styled. To the right, other, smaller tables with smaller hills of books.

A few tables back she can see a glass case with leather-bound tomes that look suspiciously like first editions; beyond that and to either side are bookshelves so tall that ladders would certainly be necessary to reach the higher ones. She has sudden visions of flying back and forth on an old rolling library ladder, pulling dusty volumes from shelves and losing herself amid the stacks, never to resurface. She can think of worse ways to spend a life.

Despite the relatively deserted feel of the cold city streets, inside this book haven it is warm and bustling, with people hovering by tables reading the backs of paperbacks and dust jackets of hardcovers; a small army of employees identifiable only by the red nametags hanging from their necks by silver ball chains lurk on the periphery, awaiting requests for help. Bella's mind flits briefly to the small bookshop she would frequent in Port Angeles and the clerk who welcomed her as soon as she entered, the bell atop the door dancing to announce her arrival. The woman would then periodically pop up to ask if she needed help, or if she was looking for anything specific, or if she had read the new John Grisham. Helpful but always hovering, and Bella, despite her desire to spend hours immersed in other worlds, could never get quite comfortable enough in the tiny shop to let herself get lost.

Conversely, when she enters the Strand, no one takes a blind bit of notice. She makes her way around the enormous tables, eyeballing familiar covers and picking up a few less familiar ones to read the synopses. She passes one of the store employees – a small, bespectacled boy who looks to be about her own age – and he gives her nothing but a small nod as she passes. She wanders, and she looks, and she reads, and she is blissfully, wonderfully uninterrupted.

Making her way further into the bowels of the store, she trails her fingers along spines and pores over titles she's never heard of, trying to determine what mind space she is occupying before committing to a purchase. Then, as if she has asked the question aloud, the memory of her final English paper and her subsequent epiphany hits her. On its heels comes the title of another work she'd been meaning to read when she wrapped _Frankenstein_, but her mind had been too bogged down by final exams and papers and projects to dedicate time to independent reading. She casts a glance at the shelves on either side of her, but realizes that despite the fact that she's been in the store for upward of two hours, she has no idea where to look. Making her way to the end of the aisle, she casts about for an employee and spots a tall boy in a beanie with his back to her, half-bent and shelving books at the opposite end of the row. She approaches him slowly, eyes running along the spines of the books to her left, in case she's in the correct section purely by chance; it would be embarrassing to ask for help only to have him point to a shelf mere feet away. When she is standing just behind him, she clears her throat.

"Excuse me; do you have Virgil's _Doomed Love_?"

The boy turns to face her, and she sucks in a breath. At first glance, he's too similar, too close a replica, too familiar, and all of the contentment that had cocooned her like cotton is torn away, leaving her feeling as though she's been stripped and sucker-punched. She stares at him for a moment, mouth agape, before spinning and dashing up the long aisle, hearing a faint "What the hell?" coming from the boy behind her as she flees. Darting around the tables near the entrance and nearly tripping over a stroller near the checkout counter, she finally bursts through the exit and onto the crowded sidewalk.

"Watch it," a guy with a steaming paper cup of coffee mutters as he sidesteps her, and she mutters an apology as she takes in gulping breaths, clutching one of the carts of discounted books with her bare hand, the ice-cold metal burning the skin of her palm. She lets the dull ache in her hand ground her as she navigates a sea of sensation: she feels unsettled, blindsided, as if she's seen a ghost. _It's impossible._ Patently impossible, because while the moment that she'd stared into the stranger's face was fleeting, it was long enough for her to absorb details: the all-too-human flush of his cheeks, the blue-green of his eyes. _Just a likeness,_ she tells herself as her breathing and her heartbeat try to regulate themselves. _That's all._

"Hey." The voice floats over her shoulder, and her still-stuttering heart picks up the tempo, now positively hammering against her ribs as if fighting for its freedom. "Are you okay?" the look-alike asks, and she turns, half-convinced that her momentary vision had been a trick of dim lighting. Those blue-green eyes narrow, a heavy brow creased in concern.

_Blue-green eyes,_ she wills herself to remember. _Not gold._ It is this detail she latches onto as she nods, but the boy is still frowning. "Are you sure? Because you kind of look like hell."

A bark of surprised laughter escapes her lips as she stares at his face, and if she needed further assurance that the person before her was far removed from his vampire doppelganger, those rather blunt words were it.

"I kind of feel like hell," she admits, releasing the metal cart and balling her hand to coax blood back into her palm, as if she is gripping her courage in her white-knuckled fist. His creased brow smoothes slightly and a relieved half-smile twists his mouth, even as he appears to be trying to hold it back.

"I have those days," he confesses with a slightly awkward nod. "Regularly." This time he grins – in commiseration, she assumes – and she takes in his plain white t-shirt, his faded jeans, his stubble, and the strands of unkempt hair peeking out from beneath his knitted hat. The red oval nametag hanging from his neck by a silver chain. _Tyler_, it reads, and the name is soothing in its modernity. "Anyway, yeah. Probably."

"Yeah, probably?" she parrots, utterly lost.

"Yeah, we probably have _Doomed Love_. If you want to come back inside, I can find it for you."

She swallows. "Okay," she replies after a beat's consideration. "That'd be great."

"Okay," he says, spinning and sidestepping a few people standing on the sidewalk before disappearing back inside the store. Bella takes a fortifying breath of cold, city air and follows him.

The boy – Tyler – makes his way along a narrow aisle straight toward the back of the store and arrives at a small information desk; keying something into the computer, he peers at the screen before nodding once. "Follow me." Bella does so again, and he leads her halfway down a narrow aisle before dropping to one knee and running a single fingertip along a row of spines; the hem of his white t-shirt inches up, and she can just see the waistband of blue-striped boxers above the line of his jeans. Cheeks burning, she looks away, gazing upward at the towering shelves either side of her, making her feel as though she's in an alley made of books. "Bingo," he says, straightening, hand curled around a thin paperback. He turns and hands it to her. "Anything else?"

"No," she says quickly. "That's it. Thanks."

"No problem." He gives her a sly smile. "Hope your day gets less hellish."

"Thanks," she says again, gripping the book. He nods and turns away, heading back toward the shelves he was restocking, and when Bella looks down at the book in her hand, the cover art is a thicket of barren branches, twisting and intertwined like a forest from which there is no escape.

* * *

"I knew you would like it, but I didn't know you'd like it quite _this_ much," Kelsey teases as Bella loops the strap of her messenger bag across her body, preparing to head to the bookstore for the third time in as many weeks. Despite two more trips to the store since the first time, she has yet to see Tyler again, and she has very nearly convinced herself that the hallucinations she once sought have taken a rather alarming turn into the tangible. She isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the boy might have been a figment of her imagination – or, at worst, a manifestation of a budding mental illness – and she has silently promised herself that if he is nowhere to be found on this trek to the store, she will pretend that the first meeting never happened, that perhaps she was simply seeing features she wanted to see in a stranger, projecting details onto some poor, unsuspecting kid in a bookstore.

In response to Kelsey's teasing, she shrugs. "You're welcome to come with me." She is expecting a declination of her invitation, so she is surprised when Kelsey unfolds herself and rises from her bed with the grace of a gazelle, grabbing her coat from the back of her desk chair.

"Actually, I think I will. It's been awhile since I checked out their art shelves."

Tamping down on her surprise, Bella nods. "Let's go."

Three hours later, when Kelsey has thoroughly exhausted every remotely artistic shelf in the store and Bella has borderline stalked every male wearing a red nametag, she is forced to cut her losses. The boy, if he exists, is not here. Walking into the store, a maelstrom of anxiety and anticipation had swirled around the thinnest thread of possibility within her, and with each red nametag-wearing boy who wasn't him, the tempest dulled and diminished until it was an all-too familiar knot of disappointment. She wants to kick herself for letting past demons manifest this way, for looking for someone who doesn't want to be found, who may or may not be real. She had been so proud of herself, so boosted by her belief that she was moving forward, not looking back, that she feels as if she's had a rather spectacular relapse, and her disappointment in herself is crushing.

"One book?" Kelsey says, her face a picture of disbelief. "We've been here for three hours, and you have _one_ book?"

Bella forces a smile to her face. "Quality, not quantity," she says, eyeing the stack of tomes propped against her friend's hip: books on painting technique, sculpture, renewable-material art. They pick their way toward the checkout counter at the front of the store and take their place at the end of the line. "That looks a little beat-up, even for a used book," Kelsey observes, dipping her chin toward the paperback in Bella's hand.

"Yeah. I don't mind it, actually."

"Why Cummings?"

"I haven't read enough of his stuff," she replies simply. What she doesn't say is that she's in the market for a new favorite poet, given that her previous favorite – Neruda – wrote too many love poems that she would read and reread as she was falling asleep against a marble chest, stone-cold fingers tracing the skin of her upper arm as she drifted, a velvet voice picking up the verse where she left off when her eyes fell closed.

Later that night, when she is lying in bed reading her new-old book by the light of her tiny reading lamp, she rereads the first two poems that she read in the store before flipping to the third, absorbing it slowly, attempting to glean meaning from the minimal words. She is glad she enrolled in a poetry class this semester; she has always been a fan of fewer words. When she turns the page to the fourth poem, her head comes up off the pillow slightly as she squints in the dim light. There are barely-visible notes scribbled in the margin, penciled words very nearly rubbed from the page by thumbs or time. Angling the small lamp closer, she attempts to make out the notes, but they aren't formed thoughts, rather singular words as if the writer were offering suggestions or edits for a poet long gone. She gives up and closes the book, rolling to place it on the floor beside her bed and turning off the reading light.

The next day, she is once again considering the faded words in the margins of the poem as she sits at a small table in one of the student lounges in Pless Hall. As she thought the night before, the first appearance of handwritten notes are simply words, as if the author was making suggestions or merely jotting down keywords to retrigger his thoughts upon returning to the poem. As she delves deeper into the book, however, the scrawled annotations become more detailed, more thought-out, as if the writer began having a conversation with the book. In a few places, he appears to have penned a few lines of verse himself.

"It's you," comes a voice from above her, and she looks up to see the boy from the bookstore – _Tyler_ – looming above her, a half-smile twisting his lips into something that looks like a smirk. "The bolter." It takes Bella the space of a few breaths to find her footing, and in that time his smirk seems to be dimming, yielding to uncertainty.

"It's you," she replies finally. "The shelver."

The smirk deepens. "You go here?" He gestures around them at the university building and the other students milling about who are studying, chatting, and eating, in some cases doing all three concurrently.

"I do. You go here?"

He shrugs, both hands gripping the straps of his backpack. "Sort of."

"How does one 'sort of' go to college?"

"I audit."

"Hm."

"Are you enjoying the Virgil?"

She mishears him, thinks he's said "vigil," and her features pull into a frown. "Pardon?"

"_Doomed Love_. It's not exactly a light read. I asked if you were enjoying it."

Her eyes narrow slightly as she stares up at him. "You've read that?"

"Yep." He offers no further explanation but tilts his head toward the vacant chair across the table. "May I?"

"I'm, um, studying," she says, not really an answer either way.

His lips twitch as long fingers curl around the plastic backrest of the empty seat. "Me too," he says without taking his eyes off her, the unspoken implication making her flush and look back down at the open book in front of her as he lowers himself into the chair and deposits his backpack on the floor beside it. "What are you studying for?"

"I'm enrolled in a poetry class," she replies, omitting the fact that the book isn't for class. He reaches across the table, pointing to one of the notes in the margin. "Do you always mark up your books?" She peeks back up at him.

"Those aren't mine," she admits, and he leans back in his chair.

"Hand-me down book?" he asks, his lips twitching again, and she wonders idly what it takes to make this boy set his smile free.

"Second-hand," she clarifies.

"I know a pretty good used bookstore in town," he teases, and she finally closes the book and meets his eye.

"That's where I got it."

"I figured." They lapse into silence, and true to his words, he is studying her. Mustering up the confidence she has fought so hard to gain from her few short months in this city, she forces herself not to look down again; instead, she studies him right back, cataloging the details that blindsided her a month ago: the blue-green eyes, the stubble, the flushed cheeks. This time he isn't wearing a hat, and she takes in his hair, an artist's palette of variegated hues: brown sugar and pennies and leaves in October. She allows her brain, just for a moment, to make the concrete comparisons: longer sideburns, scruffier clothing, the silver ghost of a scar above his right eyebrow. His tendency to tangle his fingers in his mess of hair is an utterly human habit that Edward – and the rest of the Cullens – always had to make such intentional efforts to cultivate. Pushing the silent contrast aside, she refocuses on the boy before her, whose eyebrow – the one without the scar – is arched in some combination of teasing and expectation that she can't quite quantify. "Well?" he says finally, when their mutual study is finished.

"Well, what?"

"_Doomed Love_. I'm still awaiting your verdict."

Her mind wanders back to the thin volume sitting atop her dresser, Post-it flags still peeking out from its pages like lizard tongues. Finally, she hitches one shoulder. "Love can be hopeless." He considers this, and her, in silence for a few moments. Just as she feels the urge to begin squirming under his scrutiny, he nods slowly.

"That it can." His eyes drop to the poetry collection on the table before her. "What about that one?"

Relieved that he hasn't forced her hand in the aftermath of her uncharacteristically honest and potentially telling disclosure, she glances down at the cover. "Less depressing."

He nods slightly. "In a sense. Which poetry class is it?"

"Intro."

At this, he frowns. "What year are you?"

"Freshman."

His eyebrows hitch. "You're only a freshman?" Off her nod, he shakes his head. "Shit. I was going to invite you to come out with me tonight, but you wouldn't get in." His lips twist, as if he's once again biting back a smile.

"Too bad," she replies lightly, as if she were the kind of girl who says yes to boys.

"Friday," he continues, undeterred, and she looks back up.

"Friday, what?"

"Some of the people in my building are having a party. Will you come?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"Tomorrow," he counters, and she shakes her head again, this time in confusion; she's having a hard time keeping up with his rapid-fire non sequiturs.

"Tomorrow, what?"

"Have dinner with me," he says.

"I have a study group."

"Have breakfast with me," he amends, the ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

"I have class."

"Have coffee with me," he says, and, finally, the smile breaks free. She knows, as it does, that she's going to concede.

"I have more class." But she's answering his smile with one of her own, and he realizes he's winning.

"When do you not have class?" he asks.

"You don't even know my name."

"So you'll tell me, and I'll tell you mine, and we'll go from there."

"Tyler," she says, and the momentary surprise is obvious in his features before his eyes narrow and he gives her a sly grin.

"Wow, that could get confusing. We both have the same name."

She rolls her eyes, and a chuckle escapes her before she can corral it. "It was on your name tag."

"Cheater," he says, still grinning, and she considers him for a moment, this strange boy who looks just familiar enough to make her heart twinge.

"I don't think it's a good idea," she says finally, and any levity is gone from her voice, replaced with a heavy sadness that he doesn't miss.

"Coffee is always a good idea," he argues, but the tone of his voice matches hers and his smirk dims. When she looks up into his eyes, they are blue-green and appraising. "Have coffee with me."

"Why?" she wonders aloud, the Hail Mary of her excuses, the last-ditch attempt to deflect his inexplicable interest.

"Because why not?" His answer is so simple and so honest, and she finds herself saying yes before her brain has okayed it with the rest of her. The momentary gravity that graced his angled features is gone. "Okay, Tyler," he says, forcing his lips to curl over his teeth, as if to temper the smirk-cum-smile. "Where can I meet you?"

* * *

When she steps out of the building that houses her last class of the day, she is just reaching into the front pocket of her messenger bag for her mittens when she hears Kelsey's voice from somewhere up the sidewalk. The wind is biting, the sky an unremarkable shade of gray that matches the concrete beneath her feet, and she glances around until she spots her friend standing off to one side of the building's entrance. Kelsey has a rainbow of rope-thin scarves around her neck, a leather jacket hugged tightly to her thin frame, leggings tucked into Doc Martens, and an undeniable air of New Yorker about her in the way she leans against the façade of the building, casually ignoring the stream of other students and pedestrians between them. Idly, Bella wonders what she looks like on the rare occasions that people take notice of her – wonders if, at least on good days, she looks like she belongs here.

"Hey," she says as she approaches, sliding the woolen mittens onto her hands. "What are you doing here?"

Kelsey shrugs. "I had an advising appointment and figured I'd see if you want to grab food. I skipped lunch."

Bella shifts her feet on the sidewalk. "I'm, um…actually meeting someone."

Kelsey's dark eyes widen slightly, and that little gesture goes a long way toward making Bella once again feel like the friendless loser she described herself as before the winter break. "Someone?" she asks.

"Just…a guy," Bella hedges, and her friend beams.

"Excellent."

"It's just coffee."

Kelsey rolls her eyes. "Every great love affair starts with something as innocuous as coffee," she muses, affecting a wistful air as she falls into step beside her friend. They walk together as far as the corner before Kelsey peels off to purchase a chicken kebab from a street vendor; never having warmed to the idea of meat on a stick, Bella shudders as she waves goodbye and makes her way the rest of the distance to the café where she agreed to meet Tyler.

When she steps inside the small diner-style place on West 3rd Street, he is sitting in a booth with another girl. She is on the same side of the booth as he is, leaning into his shoulder, trying to snatch what appears to be a pencil from his hand. He is laughing, making no attempt to dim his smile, and something about the sight of it makes Bella slow her steps, captivated by his unrestrained laughter.

As she approaches the booth, she notes the similar hair color, similar eyes, and the fact that he ultimately surrenders the pencil without much of a fight, ruffling the girl's hair slightly before slinging an arm casually over the back of the booth seat. "Hi," she says as she draws to a halt at the end of the table, and Tyler's arm drops from the back of the booth.

"Hey," he replies, straightening slightly, gifting her with what she suspects is his trademark half-smile. "Bella, this is my sister, Caroline. Caroline, this is Bella." The small girl smiles up at her.

"Hi," she says, and Bella returns the greeting, glancing once more at Tyler, who looks apologetic.

"Sorry," he offers. "My mother had a thing."

"Not a problem," she says, still standing with the strap of her bag slung diagonally across her body. "Did you want to hang out another time?"

"No," he says immediately, nudging Caroline with an elbow. "Pie."

The girl eyeballs him once before smirking up at Bella. "That's Tyler-code for me to scram so he can have a date with you."

Tyler glances quickly up at Bella and then away, out the diner window to the bodies passing on the sidewalk, and she notes with a twinge of glee the faintly flushed cheeks from which she herself too often suffers. He half-laughs and nudges his sister again. "Thanks a lot."

She giggles and slides out of the booth, crossing the black and white tile to the red-cushioned stool at the bar, clutching a spiral notebook and the liberated pencil in her hand. Tyler looks up at Bella again and gestures toward the vacant bench seat across from him. "You're making me nervous." She unwinds the strap of her bag and lowers herself to the seat across from him. "Okay," he says, curling his body toward her and resting his elbows on the Formica tabletop. "This doesn't count."

She frowns, her fingers pausing midway down the line of coat buttons she'd been in the process of undoing. "What?"

"As a date," he clarifies, flicking his eyes once to where his sister is ogling the glass bakery case to the left of the counter, a waitress leaning against the bar awaiting her order. "It can't count as a date when my kid sister is within earshot."

Bella flushes slightly, though he hasn't said anything overtly suggestive, her hands still poised at the fourth button from the top of her coat. She, too, glances in Caroline's direction before unbuttoning the rest of the buttons. "I'm counting it," she replies, hoping her tone is casual as she shrugs her coat from her arms and lets it pool around her hips. She leaves her scarf on, the bite of the wind still chilling her hands and feet, and he is just opening his mouth to reply when the waitress who had taken Caroline's dessert order appears beside them.

"What'd she get?" Tyler wonders, and the lady grins.

"Chocolate cream."

Tyler rolls his eyes, an affectionate half-smile on his lips. "Figures."

She echoes his laugh and retrieves a pad from her apron. "Coffee?" He nods and gestures toward Bella, who does the same. "Anything else?" They both shake their heads and she disappears.

"So…you're counting it," Tyler repeats, one corner of his mouth quirked upward. Bella nods, and he blows out a breath as if she's driving a hard bargain. "Well, in that case, you owe me."

"Excuse me?"

His lips twitch. "The chance for an _actual_ date, if only so that you can be sure that I don't always show up with an eleven-year-old in tow."

"You're already angling for date number two when we're barely even ten minutes into this one?"

"Evidently."

"What happens if I say yes and we get to the end of this and you decide you never want to see me again?"

At this, he leans back, considering her as two mugs of coffee appear on the table between them. "Tell me," he says finally, long fingers wrapping around the bone-colored mug, one eyebrow cocked in expectation as he reclines against the backrest of the fake leather booth.

"Tell you what?"

"You don't strike me as the type to play hard-to-get," he says carefully.

"I'm not."

A nod. "So tell me why you're giving off that vibe."

"Is it hard-to-get if you really don't want to be gotten?"

Rather than dismiss her words as another example of the dreaded mind game, he chews them over, considering her through slightly narrowed eyes as he picks absently at the corner of a worn leather journal near his elbow. "I don't know," he says finally. "But why run until you're sure of what it is you're running from?"

She ponders this, and all the times she should have run but didn't. She wonders if perhaps this time it would work in the reverse if she were to take flight. "Okay," she agrees, grabbing hold of her burgeoning courage with both hands.

They spend the next hour ticking off items on the proverbial get-to-know-you checklist. On the topic of family, Bella learns that Tyler's parents are divorced, his mother remarried; that he gets along better with his mother, but that a longtime frostiness in his relationship with his dad is slowly thawing.

"My family's pretty fucked-up," he sums up, and she nods as she sips from her mug.

"Mine, too."

He nods in silent commiseration. "It's getting better, though," he says, and she wonders if he realizes that with these words, his gaze slides quickly to Caroline before returning to her.

She smiles. "That's good."

When she asks about other siblings, a shadow crosses his face; when he tells her that his brother, Michael, committed suicide five years ago, she makes a move to reach for his hand before realizing it, and her own hand stops halfway across the spotted table surface. His eyes drop to her hand before returning to her face, and he gives her a soft almost-smile, as if he's registered not only the gesture but the intent behind it. He turns the questioning on her, and she gives him the bare bones on Charlie and Renee and her relocation from Phoenix to Forks. He asks what she wants to study and she parrots the question back to him; they are both undecided, and she has never felt that an adjective described her so aptly, so completely, as that one. The conversation has only just graduated from preliminary details to more conceptual chatter when Caroline reappears at the end of the table with her notebook and pencil. "It's four," she announces, and Tyler blinks up at her, seemingly dazed by either the interruption or the words.

"Four what?"

"O'clock," she replies, rolling her eyes. "I have French tutoring at four thirty."

"Shit," he says, glancing at the clock on the wall behind the counter before glancing back at Bella as he shifts his weight to one hip, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and dropping bills on the tabletop. "Okay, this is why this doesn't count. Because if I didn't have to haul ass uptown, I'd be walking you home, or at least buying you a refill."

"Refills here are free," Caroline interjects, and this time it's Tyler who rolls his eyes; Bella bites back a smile of her own as she once again notes the clear familial resemblance.

"Anyway, tomorrow," he says, returning his wallet to his pocket and grabbing his coat. "The party. Date number two."

Bella is tempted to protest, to shake her head, to argue that she's not the party type, but Tyler is snaking his arm through the sleeve of his coat, and she feels like an objection would be ill-mannered, given that it would delay his departure. And, despite her reservations, he's broken through her first line of defense. "Okay," she says, uncertainty heavy in her voice, and he smiles.

"Where do you live?"

"Hayden," she replies, and he nods.

"Eight o'clock?"

"Okay," she says again, then the idea hits her. "Can I bring my roommate?"

He smiles. "Girls. You always travel in packs."

"Safety in numbers," she replies as he slips from the booth and slides his other arm into his coat.

"You think I'm dangerous?" he teases, drawing the zipper of his coat up to his chin and fishing the beanie he'd been wearing in the bookstore out of his pocket.

"Nope," she replies. "But I've been wrong before."

He smirks, yanking the hat down over his ears. "I'm going to continue this conversation tomorrow night, so be prepared."

Caroline has been watching this exchange with silent fascination as she dons her own coat, and when Tyler places a large hand on her shoulder, she grins at Bella. "Nice meeting you," she says, and Bella nods back, never entirely comfortable with kids.

"You, too," she replies, then smiles. "_Au revoir_."

Caroline beams. "_A bientôt_," she replies with perfect enunciation, and Tyler smiles at Bella over his sister's head.

"See you," he says, and Bella nods, watching as they disappear through the glass door together. The waitress appears with the coffee pot in one hand.

"Refill?" Nowhere to be, nothing pressing to do, Bella nods, noting the small twitch of the waitress's lips as she tops off her mug. "He's a charmer, that one."

"He is," she replies, wondering fleetingly how many girls have sat across a diner table from him, sipping coffee and swallowing charm. Her mind imagines the considerable experience a twenty-one-year-old boy from New York could have and holds it up to her utter lack thereof with a steadfastly chaste, purposely innocent boy whose lack of experience hadn't precluded him from shattering her very nearly beyond repair.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she blows gently. Perhaps, she reflects, history isn't the worst thing to have. Perhaps a past is necessary to promise someone a future. Or perhaps, this time around, she should do herself a favor and focus on the present.


	4. Chapter 3

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M

**Acknowledgement: **Hey, you guys? HollettLA is pretty freaking awesome.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The last party Bella went to ended in very literal disaster: crushed petal-pink and crimson roses, broken glass vases, a once-pristine cream carpet splattered with water and drops of blood. A destroyed black piano. A spectacularly broken heart. She didn't even attend any graduation parties, in part because of the negative connotation, and in part because she knew she wouldn't be able to convincingly fake nostalgia. The likelihood of tonight's party ending in even a remotely similar fallout is unlikely, but as she stands dripping before her closet, towel wrapped around her body and skin pebbling in the cool air of the dorm room, she feels nerves gathering in the pit of her stomach like storm clouds. She pushes aside hangers, not wanting to look like a slob but also wanting to look like she at least put forth a little bit of effort. Regardless, she wants to feel like herself, wants to be comfortable, and she opts for clothes that will let her wear minor familiarity like body armor: jeans, a tank, a plaid button-down.

Kelsey, she knows, will show up looking typically "artist-chic" – she had leapt at the invitation to the party, and, Bella suspects, at the chance to glimpse Tyler. She is just pulling a brush through her dry hair when there's a knock on the wooden door; she smoothes her hands over her shirt and takes a breath before opening it to find Tyler standing on the other side, half-smile firmly in place.

"Hi," he says, and she feels a bubble of something that isn't anxiety or uncertainty well up in her chest.

"Hi," she replies, meeting his steady gaze for a moment before glancing behind her. "Um, let me just…" She drops the sentence, crossing the small space to retrieve her jacket from the back of her desk chair and slipping a small purse with her room key, cash, ID, and emergency credit card into her pocket.

"So this is what undergrad housing looks like," he muses, looking around the small space appraisingly. "Very nice."

"Thanks," she says, uncertain if one can really claim credit for housing that belongs to the university. She tries to see the space through his eyes: the fairy lights that Kelsey strung around the perimeter of the room just below the ceiling, the explosion of color on her roommate's side of the room and the comparatively minimal décor on hers. "Okay," she says quickly, tipping her head toward the door. "Ready."

"Where's your roommate?"

"She had to go to a gallery opening thing for class credit. She's going to meet us there."

He nods and smiles. "Date number two." Fidgeting under his obviously pleased gaze, she ushers him out and follows him down the stairwell and out of the building, stepping onto the sidewalk beneath the same enormous purple flag that hangs over the entrance of every university building in the city. Bella glances at him for a cue of which way to walk, and he smiles as he places a hand at the small of her back and nudges her in the right direction. Though her logical brain knows it's ridiculous, she feels as though she can sense the heat of his hand through the layers of cotton and flannel and wool, and she is fleetingly sad when he drops it to bury his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"You know," he says as they reach a corner and wait for a break in traffic to cross. "My last girlfriend always said it was prudent to eat dessert before dinner in case an asteroid hit the restaurant mid-meal."

She side-eyes him, unsure of the reasoning behind the words or his intention behind bringing up an ex, but she decides to play along until she can decipher the lay of the land.

"My last boyfriend didn't eat dessert," she replies as the traffic breaks and they resume walking, opting not to mention that, to him, dessert would have been _her._

He half-laughs under his breath and meets her sideways look. "That was a pretty pathetic attempt at a metaphor."

"For what?" she asks, jumping up onto the opposite curb.

"For my wanting to kiss you before we even get to the party."

Bella's mouth pops open and she comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, very nearly causing the person walking a few steps behind them to plow into her back. She peeks over at him and he smiles, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink from the cold. This isn't the tortured, ill-advised attraction of a self-loathing teenage vampire or the awkward, unwelcome attention of a pubescent boy intrigued by the shiny new girl in his homeroom class; this is the devastating flirtation of a man who knows exactly what a sly smirk and a casual touch can do to a girl. Tyler Hawkins is exactly the kind of boy who has never paid attention to her, and it's at once terrifying and exhilarating. "Sorry," she mutters, stepping to one side to let the man pass before resuming walking. "Well, my last boyfriend always went to great lengths not to kiss me, as he said his self-control wasn't the best, so by _that_ logic we probably shouldn't kiss at all."

"Hm. An impasse."

"It would appear so," she replies lightly, even as something is somersaulting behind her breastbone.

After a few yards of silence, he clears his throat. "Well, I don't know him, but I can say without reservation that your last boyfriend was an idiot." Pleasure rises in her like a soap bubble as they turn a corner. "Was he the one you were wrong about?" Tyler asks, and she turns to look at him, the city lights setting his profile aglow.

"Wrong about?"

He meets her gaze. "You said you didn't think I was dangerous, but that you'd been wrong before." He sidesteps a discarded plastic grocery bag, floating down the sidewalk like a ghost. "Was he the one you were wrong about?"

"Oh," she says. "Yeah."

"What was so dangerous about him?" There's the faintest hint of challenge behind Tyler's voice that reminds her in passing of Mike Newton; while he was as intrigued as the rest of the student body by the enigmatic Cullens, the typically-male bruised ego had on more than one occasion manifested in a similar tone when she first started going out with Edward.

"What he did to me," she answers finally, purposely not looking at Tyler. "What he did to me was what was dangerous about him."

She can feel the weight of his gaze, but she doesn't turn to face him. "And what was that?" His voice is gentle but curious, and she wonders how much of that curiosity is an inner debate on whether or not he's willing to dive into murky waters.

"He made me willing to sacrifice everything for him, and then he sacrificed me." Tyler is silent in the aftermath of this revelation, and it takes another block before she is able to gather the courage to look at him once more. His face is a mask, and immediately she realizes the severity of her faux pas. "I'm sorry," she says softly, and he finally turns to look at her.

"For what?"

"That was…heavy."

He blows out a breath. "Yeah." She regrets even bringing Edward up, letting his phantom presence eclipse the lighthearted flirting that had preceded it. "That explains it, though," he says finally.

"Explains what?" she asks, too afraid to hope that his continuing the conversation might mean she hasn't blown it.

"Why you're not sure whether or not you want to be caught."

She nods at the truth of his words, mildly surprised by how perceptive he is as well as the fact that he appears to remember every word of their conversation at the diner. "Well, you know…once bitten." At that, a small laugh escapes her at the absolute fittingness of the expression.

"What?" he asks, confused amusement pulling the gravity from his features.

She shakes her head. "Nothing." But she is tempted to explain, a pull she has never felt since she deciphered the Cullens' secret, and that, in itself, is telling.

He slows as they reach a door that presumably leads to his building, and he returns his hand to the small of her back. "Bella?" he asks, pausing with one hand on her and one hand on the door handle.

"Yeah?"

"When you decide whether or not you want to be caught…let me know, okay?"

The grin that cracks her face is involuntary, warm pleasure spreading out from the center of her stomach. "Deal."

The lighting in the stairwell is an unattractive shade of yellow, the off-white paint on the walls peeling and chipped. The stairwell itself is narrow, and Bella can feel Tyler's shoulder bumping against hers as they climb three flights, their sneakers alternately scuffing and squeaking on the metal lips of the stairs and the linoleum landings between floors. When they reach the brown door with a white plastic rectangle bearing the number three attached to it, music is pulsing behind the closed door like a heartbeat. Tyler reaches for the handle, pausing before he pulls it open to glance over his shoulder at her. "Um, these things can get a little crazy," he says, as if this hasn't occurred to him until now. "Whenever you want to leave, just say the word."

"Okay," she agrees, the nerves from earlier making a reappearance as he nods and pulls the door open, holding it for her and gesturing inside.

"Welcome!" yelps someone before the door has even swung shut behind them, and a girl in a bikini top and cutoff jean shorts materializes with what appear to be Mexican flags painted on either of her cheeks; one hand is curled around a bottle of Corona. "_Bienvenido_!" she amends, and Bella tamps down on the urge to correct her use of the singular. With her free hand, the greeter gestures along the hallway, which is lined with open doors and crammed with people wearing ridiculous internationally-inspired outfits and, in some cases, costumes. "Okay. First door on the left," the girl continues, "Germany." She points to the next door. "Jamaica." And the next. "Russia." She continues pointing, reeling off countries with each gesture: Scotland, Ireland, Japan. When she's done with the introductory spiel, she eyeballs Tyler briefly before holding up her half-empty bottle in mock-salute. "Enjoy!" she beams and trips off in the opposite direction. Bella watches her go for a brief moment before peeking over her shoulder at Tyler, who's watching her carefully before leaning in to be heard.

"Have you ever been to an Around the World party before?" he almost-yells, and she feels his warm breath wash over the shell of her ear.

She shakes her head and leans back to reply directly into his ear. "I've never really been to a party before," she replies, and he pulls back to look at her face, surprise and uncertainty thick in his features. Bella decides in that moment not to admit the other truth: that she's never actually had a drink before, either.

He assesses her for a moment before curling a hand around her hip as if she needs protecting. "What do you like to drink?" he ask-yells, and she shrugs. Again with the scrutiny, and she wonders if he hears the admission she doesn't make. Finally he nods, steering them toward the second door the hostess-girl had indicated. Stepping inside, Bella takes in the sparsely furnished apartment, sofas pushed against walls and a large makeshift bar assembled in the middle of the room with a blender, bottles of liquor, and a tower of plastic cups atop it; to the side is an enormous cooler of ice. Approaching the bar with Tyler's hand still wrapped around her hipbone, Bella eyes the bottles warily. "Hey, man," the guy manning the blender says in greeting as they approach.

"Daiquiri?" Tyler asks, gazing down at Bella, and she nods. "Light," he tells the sort-of-bartender, and the guy nods as he begins pouring rum and thick red mix into the blender before adding ice with a giant scoop. The scream of the blender competes briefly with the thumping music until the guy flips the switch and pours the concoction into a red plastic cup and hands it over.

Following their departure from Jamaica and a brief layover in Ireland, where Tyler acquires a bottle of Smithwick's, he steers them toward an open door behind which are an assortment of armchairs, kitchen chairs, folding chairs, and a few pieces of lawn furniture culled from various apartments and haphazardly assembled into a lounge of sorts. Gesturing toward a vacant armchair, Tyler once again places a hand at the small of her back and guides her in the right direction. The music is evidently being blasted from the next apartment over, and the walls of the room throb with the bass beat. Bella settles in the armchair and Tyler drags over a vacant white plastic chair – where, she wonders idly, does a person find patio furniture in Manhattan and, perhaps more importantly, _why?_ – angling it perpendicular to her chair before lowering himself into it. He leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. "This okay?" She nods, taking a curious sip of her frozen drink. There is a faint trace of something sinister behind the sweet, but the sugary strawberry and the crunch of the ice are nearly enough to completely mask the booze. "How is it?" he asks, watching her face, and she nods again as she swallows.

"Really good," she replies, taking another sip before lowering the cup between her knees. She understands, suddenly, how a girl could get completely swept up in cute boys and sweet drinks and wind up too hammered to stand. They sit in companionable silence for a few beats, each taking intermittent sips of their drinks, and Bella feels herself relaxing into the cushioned armchair, into the moment and the atmosphere and the company, and before she realizes it, three-quarters of her drink is gone. She tips it and swallows most of the remainder, lowering the cup to see Tyler gazing at her in amusement, the wry twist of his lips disappearing only when he wraps them around the lip of his own bottle. "Another one?" he asks, the amusement in his eyes leaking into his voice, and she blushes but nods. "Wait here." She watches him disappear through the door and turns her attention to the people around her, all clutching red plastic cups. To her immediate right is a boy wearing a sombrero and what she hopes is an adhesive handlebar moustache; talking to him is a girl in a silk, Asian-inspired top with chopsticks in her hair.

As she continues gazing around at the other partygoers – most of them students, by the looks of it – a boy appears nearby, an Irish flag wrapped around his shoulders like a cape and a bottle of Jameson dangling from one hand, which he points at the doorway. "Hey!" he greets, eyes and cheeks bright with liquor, and Bella follows his eyes to where Tyler has just stepped back through the door with a red cup in hand. "You're here!" As Tyler crosses the room and hands Bella her cup, the boy's grin turns mildly sly. "And you brought…someone."

Tyler's gazing at him, his mouth twitching in wary amusement as he returns to his chair. "Aidan, this is Bella. Bella, my roommate, Aidan." The roommate does something that looks like a ridiculous attempt at a salute-plus-bow before collapsing onto the armrest of Bella's seat.

"Bella," he muses, gazing down into her face as if trying to place her. After a moment, his eyes slide to Tyler. "Wait, the priest's daughter?"

Tyler casts her an uneasy look, so she answers for him. "Cop's daughter," she replies, once again looking up at Aidan, whose eyes widen as his jaw drops slightly.

"Your dad's a cop?" he exclaims in disbelief.

"Chief of Police, actually," she replies, and Aidan erupts into a short bark of laughter. "Well," he says, turning to Tyler. "You definitely have a type."

"Jesus, Aidan," Tyler groans, and it's the first time Bella has seen him anything less than self-assured. He gives her look that is equal parts embarrassed and apologetic, and she smiles in reassurance. "My, uh, ex-girlfriend's dad was a cop," he explains, shooting his roommate a withering look.

Bella nods and takes another small sip of her drink as Aidan glances back and forth between them. "Well, my work here is done. Unless you'd like to hear more of Tyler's sordid history?" he asks her, one eyebrow arched, and Tyler reclines farther in his chair.

"Fuck off, Aidan," he mutters, eyes on Bella, and it's the first time she's seen him off-balance. It goes a long way toward evening the scales, and she hides her smile behind the rim of her cup. "Sorry about that," he mumbles as Aidan wanders off, eyes flicking between Bella's face and the label of his beer bottle, the corner of which he has begun to peel away from the glass. "His filter kind of sucks."

"Don't worry about it," she says, and he's staring intently at her.

"I didn't date a priest's daughter," he says, a thin thread of despair in his voice. "I swear."

"Okay," she says, the word open-ended like a question, and he sighs.

"I went on _a date_ with a priest's daughter. And I didn't _know_ she was a priest's daughter until we were already _on_ the date." He casts a contemptuous look in the direction his roommate wandered. "He makes me sound like I have some sort of weird…fetish." He winces at the word and resumes picking at the label of his beer bottle. "I don't," he adds in clarification, chancing a look up at her before a sly smile slides over his face. "Not that handcuffs don't have their uses."

A fire roars up her neck and floods her face, and she takes another sip of her drink in a futile effort to cool the instant heat suffusing every single part of her. She feels suddenly young in a way that has nothing to do with an eighty-six year age difference and everything to do with being a freshman girl from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere who is on a date with a twenty-something-year-old boy from New York City. "How old are you?" she blurts out suddenly, and his momentary amusement gives way to confusion.

"Um. Twenty-one?"

"Oh." The memory of how obsessed she'd been with a one-year age difference, how she had agonized over something so trivial assaults her. She hadn't realized at the time that she could have kept aging for a decade and still never surpassed the years of experience that she would always be lacking. At the same time, despite his near-century of life experience, Edward would always be seventeen, never changing, never aging, and something about this boy whose existence is a good eighty years shy of Edward's seems more knowing, more worldly than her vampire ex. For the first time, she realizes that there are things about which Edward was just as naïve as she was, areas in which he was very much seventeen.

"How old was he?" Tyler asks gently, and she wonders if she is destined to always date mind-readers.

"He was…a little older," she settles on finally, raising her cup to her lips again. Just as she does so, he reaches out and touches the crescent scar on her wrist, tracing the reminder of James's poisonous teeth with the soft pad of a single fingertip. "What's this from?" he asks, his voice soft but uneasy, and she glances down, following the path of his skin against hers. When she looks back up, his eyes are apprehensive, and she wonders suddenly how his brother committed suicide. Did he leap off a bridge? Swallow pills? Drag something sharp across the paper-thin skin of his inner wrist?

Shoving aside her usual desire for secrecy in favor of a sudden need to alleviate his concern, she meets his gaze head-on. "A souvenir from someone who didn't care for the aforementioned ex-boyfriend very much." The breath he releases is visible in the deflation of his chest, and feeling emboldened by liquor and honesty, she reaches up and runs her own fingertip along the silvery line just above his right eyebrow. Her finger is cold from gripping her frozen drink, his skin hot by comparison. "What's this from?" she asks.

"A souvenir from the aforementioned ex-girlfriend's cop father," he replies, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if it's possible that their internal scars could be as well-matched as their external ones. She realizes that she's still touching his scar at the same moment that she realizes that she is close enough to feel his breath on her face, taste the beer that he's drinking.

"Do you still want to kiss me?" she asks, feeling suddenly emboldened by his proximity, the pulsing music, the fire of strawberry-flavored alcohol tripping through her veins.

"God, so badly. But I'd feel like a dick."

"Why?"

"Because you're not currently in possession of all your faculties."

"I'm in possession of enough of them," she replies without missing a beat, and thinks that if this type of courage is what comes with alcohol, she understands why people might make a habit of imbibing.

He shakes his head, and her booze-fueled bravado wilts and dies on the vine. Oblivious to the regret painted on his face, she pushes against his chest and tries to stand, but the room tilts and she is forced to steady herself against his shoulder. "Hey," he says gently, rising and curling a hand around her scarred wrist; she snatches it back and he frowns down at her. "Hey," he says again, and she feels shame, white-hot and too familiar, course through her.

"I've been here, okay?" she says, tears and humiliation climbing her throat. "With someone who didn't want me. And it's not a ticket I plan to buy twice." She moves to step away from him, and he grabs her by the crook of her arm, pulling her gently and backing her up against the wall, caging her in with a hand pressed against the stucco on either side of her. Before she can argue or decipher his intentions, his mouth is on hers, hot and wet and hungry. She opens her mouth, and his tongue swipes once against her lower lip before he pulls back. The kiss is over before she can fully engage, and she opens her eyes, staring at him, stunned, as a few of their fellow partygoers break into disjointed applause. She thinks she hears someone catcall, but she can't be sure over the sound of the throbbing music and the blood roaring behind her eardrums.

"I want you," he breathes. "I want to kiss you. I want to do everything you'll let me do with you. But I don't want to do it when you're drunk, and I don't want to do it while you're comparing me to someone else, and I don't want to do it when you're still looking at me like you're not quite sure of something. But I _do _want to do it, Bella, believe me on that." She has spent so long doubting her own appeal, retracing her past missteps and mistaken assumptions, dissecting details to find the flaws, that to have a boy so openly admit that he wants her – to surrender to the desire instead of always keeping a white-knuckled grip on the reins of his self-restraint – very nearly knocks her on her ass. "Okay," she says, stupidly, and his relief comes out in a heavy exhale.

"Okay," he echoes, glancing at her nearly-empty cup before smirking up at her. "How about some water?"

She nods. "Water sounds good."

When she has a new red cup of cold ice water clutched in her hand, they spend another half hour or so making small talk with a few of his friends and the decidedly hammered roommate before he suggests that they call it a night.

"I'm not comparing you to someone else," she says as they stand on the corner of East 8th and Mercer, awaiting the opportunity to cross. That truth doesn't quite sit right, however, and she frowns as she stares at the illuminated red "Don't Walk" on the opposite corner. "Well, not how you think, anyway."

"What does that mean?" he asks warily. "'Not how I think?'"

"I don't compare you to him in specific ways – like, this is how you're different, this is how you're the same, this is what I like better about one of you over the other."

"Okay."

"The last relationship I had was the only one I've ever had, so I guess I compare in more…abstract ways. Like, I compare how you make me feel with how I felt when I was with him, but that's more about me than either of you." She's actually proud of herself when she pauses to consider her own words; she is proud of the truth of them, and the hint of feminism behind them. Perhaps a certain degree of chick-power self-awareness is the consolation prize for her train wreck of a first love, the baggage she will carry into future relationships. She can think of worse things.

Still silently basking in the glow of this revelation, she thinks maybe she should drink more often. Then she remembers the humiliating way she all but threw herself at him less than two hours ago. Maybe not.

"And how am I doing in that horse race?" he asks, peering at her carefully, his angular face going from slightly orange to ghostly white as the red caution turns to a white "Walk," urging them to the opposite curb.

"Very well," she replies.

"Awesome," he says, and when she peeks at him from the corner of her eye, he's smiling, eyes alight beneath the streetlights, cheeks and nose pink from the cold winter air. Despite her assurances that she doesn't make concrete comparisons, she takes a moment to enjoy the way his face flushes in the frigid wind, the way he stomps his feet against the pavement in an attempt to warm them, the way he runs a hand through his hair, and the fact that once or twice it's almost gotten tangled there. The fact that the way he purses his lips when he's thinking isn't because he has poison pooling in his mouth as a result of his barely-harnessed desire to kill her. The fact that she knows what it looks like when he drinks something and swallows it. So lost is she in her silent rumination that she doesn't realize they've reached her building until he catches the door as two girls exit and holds it open for her.

"Thanks," she mumbles, stepping into the lobby and making her way to the elevator. They ride up to the seventh floor in relative silence, and by the time they are standing in front of the door to her room, her earlier mortification has rekindled within her once again. "I'm sorry about earlier," she says, turning her room key over in her hand.

Tyler shakes his head. "Don't be sorry." His eyes roam her face, as if he's trying to read her face for context clues before he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever been drunk before?"

She looks down at the toes of her shoes. "No," she says, her faint ebb of embarrassment growing to a full-fledged tidal wave.

He gives her a soft smile. "You should take some aspirin before you go to bed," he says, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocking forward to his toes; the soles of his sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. "And drink at least one whole glass of water. That will help."

"Thanks," she says, even though she is already feeling very close to sober.

He nods again, appearing to be silently debating something before he leans in and presses his lips to her hairline. "I'll call you tomorrow," he murmurs, lips moving against the skin of her forehead, and she nods against his mouth. "I'm working in the morning, but I'll call you after," he adds, stepping back.

"Thanks," she says again, unsure even as she says it what, exactly, it is for: the date, the advice, the kiss, the promise. He nods, lips twisting as he turns away and makes his way back down the hallway. His shoulders are hunched, the question mark posture of a teenage boy who sprouted inches faster than he could figure out how to carry them. The hems of his jeans are slightly frayed from dragging along concrete city sidewalks, shirttails hanging out from beneath his coat. He hits the button for the elevator and the doors slide immediately open, the car not having left her floor in the space between their stepping off it and his returning. He glances over his shoulder once more, grinning when he catches her watching before disappearing into the elevator. She lets herself into her room and sheds her shoes and coat before collapsing into bed in her clothes. When she falls asleep, it is with the memory of how he tasted at the forefront of her mind.

The next morning, sun streams through the window of her room and spills in a pool across the middle of her bed, heating the blanket from her chest to her thighs and making her feel as though something warm is radiating out from the very center of her. She cracks an eye and glances toward the alarm clock atop her dresser: ten-thirty. Groaning, she peeks across the room toward Kelsey's already-made bed before realizing that her friend never showed up at the party the night before and might not have even come home last night. Lurching upward, she tosses aside the blankets beneath which she had been basking and very nearly trips toward her purse, scrambling in the front pocket for the shiny silver cell phone she is still getting used to having. When she flips it open only to realize that the battery has been drained, she crawls back into bed and pulls the charging cord out from between the bed frame and the wall, plugging the phone in and watching as it comes to life. She quickly scrolls through her phone book and dials her roommate's number, holding her breath as the call connects and a tinny ring echoes in her ear.

"Hey there, party animal," comes the familiar voice, and Bella exhales as her eyes fall closed.

"Hey," she replies, relief crashing over her. "I was worried about you."

"Why?"

"You didn't come to the party last night, and then I woke up and you weren't here."

At this, Kelsey laughs. "I was in my bed when you fell into yours, thank you very much," she replies. "And I texted you that I wasn't going to be able to make the party."

Bella frowns into the middle distance. "You what'ed me?"

"I texted you. You know, sent you a text message? To your phone?"

"Oh. Yeah, I don't think my phone gets those."

"You're kidding me."

"I don't know. This is the basic model my dad got me so that I didn't have an excuse not to call home."

"Aw. My little bumpkin roommate." The teasing affection in her voice makes Bella smile. "Anyway, sorry; the opening went way later than Dr. Willcox said it would, and I figured that by the time I made it back to the Village, the party would either be over or full of really drunk people."

"Probably," Bella agrees.

"I'm just working on a project – I reserved two hours of studio time this morning – but I'll see you later?"

"Sure."

"I want to hear all about the party, and I still want to meet book-boy."

Bella laughs. "Sure," she says again and says goodbye before hanging up.

The brief burst of panic has left her feeling drained but too wired to even consider going back to sleep, and she runs her thumb over the cover of her phone for a few minutes, staring alternately at the screen and out the window at the façade of the building across the street. She lets memories of the previous night wash over her – some, admittedly, clearer than others – and her mind keeps coming to rest on the same one: Tyler, hands against the wall behind her, mouth hot and soft on hers. She licks her lips absently, recalling his honest confession – _I want to kiss you. I want to do everything you'll let me do with you._ – and heat pools in her belly that has nothing to do with sunlight sliding through windowpanes.

* * *

The longer she spends peeking down aisles and around shelves and behind computer screens, the more anxious she gets. The myriad ways in which she essentially fucked up last night's date keep flashing in her mind with all the subtlety of Times Square, and she physically reacts with every unwelcome memory. She's certain that the people she passes must think she suffers from some sort of nervous disorder. The more bookcases she peeks around and the more boys she sees who aren't Tyler, the greater her insecurity becomes; the feeling is just a little too reminiscent of how she felt when she was searching for someone who may or may not even be real. She recalls the end of the night, and Tyler's lips against her hairline. If he was lying about working this morning, was he lying about calling her, too? Has she ruined this before it even had a chance to get off the ground? She is just debating the merits of turning tail and running from the store when she rounds a corner and spots a familiar figure walking away from her with an old man following him. Slowing her pace, she watches as Tyler draws to a halt in front of a shelf and runs a finger along the row of books before plucking one from the shelf and handing it to the old man, who thanks him. Tyler smiles as the man turns and vanishes down another aisle and makes a move to follow him before spotting Bella standing a short distance away.

"Hey," she says hesitantly, wishing she had a book or something in her hand.

Almost immediately, his face splits into a wide grin. "Hey yourself," he replies, and she notices that one of his hands is wrapped around a small stack of four paperbacks. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she answers. "You said you'd be working."

He nods, and a sly smile eclipses the grin as he deposits the books on a nearby cart and steps toward her, closing the distance between them. "How are you feeling?"

"More embarrassed than hung over," she admits, and his smirk bleeds from his face.

"Don't be embarrassed," he says, his eyes and voice earnest. "The first time I got drunk I ran naked six blocks down Central Park West."

She feels her jaw drop as she stares at him, trying in equal parts to imagine and not imagine what that might have looked like. "I hope it was summer," she finally chokes out, and he shakes his head with a self-deprecating groan.

"December," he replies. "New Year's Eve, actually, which is probably the only reason I didn't get arrested: the lion's share of the city's police force was in Times Square."

She giggles, then sobers. "Really, though. I'm sorry."

"Bella, stop apologizing." He slides his hands into his pockets. "Did you have fun last night?"

"Yes," she says immediately, and there's that half-smile again.

"Did I at least earn date number three?"

She offers a half-smile of her own. "Yes."

"Do you remember me kissing you?"

She is focusing on the red tag around his neck, his name spelled out in all caps as if it's shouting at her. _TYLER!_ "Yes," she says to his chest, and she hears him chuckle.

"Usually it's the guy whose focus is somewhere south of eye level," he muses, and she looks up just in time to catch his eyes darting up from her chest. They eye each other in the somewhat dim lighting as he takes another tiny step in her direction. "You haven't been drinking today, right?"

She frowns, slightly insulted at the implication. It isn't even noon yet, for crying out loud; one buzz and he's treating her like she's a lush. "No, of course not."

He takes another step, and she takes half a step back, feeling a shelf of books brush against her spine. "So you would say, then, that you're in possession of all of your faculties?"

Finally catching on to the direction of his words, she smiles. "Every last one of them."

He takes a final, tiny step to close the residual distance between them, and she shuffles less than an inch backward to bring her back flush against the bookshelf. "Excellent." He lowers his head and leans in.

* * *

"So…your turn," she says twenty minutes later, pressing her shoulder blades back into the brick of the building façade as they stand side by side on the sidewalk, escaping the warm cocoon of the bookstore for Tyler's twenty-minute break.

"My turn?" he echoes, his breath visible in the tiny cloud before his lips.

"Yeah. I told you the basics of my last relationship; now it's your turn."

He groans, tipping his head back against the building and gazing upward at a gray sky. "Allie. Her name was Allie. She was the cop's daughter." Bella arches an eyebrow in expectation, and his head lolls to one side as he meets her expectant gaze. "What?"

"Keep going. How'd you meet? What happened? Why'd her dad kick your ass?"

He sighs. "Promise me you won't hold this against me."

At his words, she feels an internal drawbridge begin to rise, but she nods. "Okay."

"I actually met Allie's dad before I met Allie. I sort of…got into a fight outside a bar, and her father was one of the officers who showed up to break it up. I ran my mouth and got myself a little roughed up and also got myself – and Aidan – arrested." A wry smile twists his mouth. "He wasn't too happy with me." He rubs his forehead, and Bella wonders if he realizes that his pinkie finger lingers for a brief moment on the barely-there scar above his eyebrow. "Anyway, Aidan found out that the cop had a daughter who went to school with us, and it turned out she was in one of my classes. My roommate, morally questionable character that he is, suggested I date her as a way to…get back at her dad." He winces, as if realizing for the first time how truly horrible it sounds when spoken aloud. "I did, but only at first. I mean, I asked her out, but even on our first date, it wasn't…like that. I liked her. I really did." He sighs, burrowing his hands in his pockets. "Anyway, she found out about my knowing her dad, and I came clean about why I asked her out in the first place, and that was that." He gives her a wary look, self-reproach evident in his eyes. "I know this makes me sound like a first-class asshole. I do know that. I'm not proud of it." Off her silence, his shoulders slump and he shifts his gaze to the sidewalk, bending his right leg and bringing the sole of his sneaker up to rest against the brick wall behind him. "Bella, I'm not perfect."

And he isn't; in this moment, shoulders hunched, cheeks flushed, fidgeting, he is beautifully, wonderfully human. She pushes away from the building and turns to face him, resettling one shoulder against the brick wall as he meets her gaze. "I've loved perfect before, and he broke me anyway."

"I won't do that," he promises, and despite the fact that they've known each other for a few short weeks, she believes him.

"Okay," she says, taking a deep breath. "In that case."

He arches an eyebrow, the faintest trace of the smirk she's coming to expect lingering at the edges of his mouth. "In that case, what?"

"Catch me."


	5. Chapter 4

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating:** M.

**Acknowledgement:** My illustrious beta, HollettLA, is, in the common vernacular, "the shiznit." xo

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Much to her surprise, Bella spends the start of February falling in love. The month of red cherubic cupid cutouts, of heart-shaped scarlet boxes and explosions of crimson flowers, and all she sees is blue-green eyes and auburn hair, the cream-pink expanse of warm, soft, blood-flushed skin. The fact that it's the shortest month of the year holds no bearing, and she surprises herself with how readily she allows Tyler to gain entry to her heart. Sometimes she wonders if she should feel more wary rather than less, considering how much of her soul – and her pain – she exposed right out of the gate, but despite her intellectual misgivings, she feels uncharacteristically free, as though there's something about having been broken to the depths of her soul that has left behind a kind of reckless optimism, a "been there, done that, couldn't possibly be worse" sort of mentality.

The Manhattan map that had been her atlas in her earliest days in the city has become scrap paper, crushed at the bottom of her bag and unearthed only when she needs to jot something down or discard a wad of chewing gum. She rarely gets lost these days, even in the maze of the Village, and while she still wears her comfortable wardrobe that Kelsey refers to as "hick-chic," she dresses up her jeans and plaid shirts with scarves and hats and lets her roommate drag her to a jeweler to get her ears pierced. Her outward appearance does what her inner persona is doing, becoming a blend of small-town Washington and big-city New York, and she finds that she likes the fusion of the two, and how she's slowly becoming the person she hoped she might be when she blindly accepted her slot at NYU: brave, independent, and unique, without completely abandoning the parts of her past that bring her comfort, remind her of home.

The parts that don't bring her comfort, she's relieved to see, are slowly fading like scars, becoming simple scenery on the road map of her life instead of the once massive, disastrous detours that threatened to derail her every day. She calls Charlie at least once a week and can hear the relief in his voice just as plainly as he can hear the contentment in hers.

She hasn't woken screaming since September.

* * *

"Girl, he is cuuuuute," Kelsey murmurs, her dark eyes tracking Tyler's movement across the restaurant as he heads toward the soda fountain for a refill. "I mean, his clothes sort of make him look homeless, and the boy could use a haircut, but still." Bella giggles around the straw of her own soda, watching Tyler as he presses his cup to the Coke spout; when he glances over his shoulder and sees them spying on him, a knowing smirk touches his mouth. "Damn," Kelsey says, returning her gaze to Bella's face. "You go, girl." She leans forward slightly, and Bella flicks a glance to where Tyler is pressing the plastic lid back on his cup before mirroring her posture. "Just remember: hang a bra or something from the doorknob."

Bella frowns. "What?"

"When you guys are getting it on in the room. I don't want to barge in and see a bare, pasty-white ass bumping up and down because you forgot to set the signal."

Clumsy fingers barely catch her soda cup before it tips, and as she rights it, she feels the telltale flush spread through her cheeks. "We're not… I mean, I'm not…" She shakes her head as she peeks beyond her roommate to where Tyler is headed in their direction.

"Not there yet?" Kelsey supplies, and Bella shakes her head again with a little more vigor. "Okay. Well, just…for future reference," Kelsey says simply as she leans back in the booth and Tyler slides back in beside Bella.

"So," Kelsey says to him easily, as if she wasn't just imagining and discussing his bare ass. "What's with the notebook?" She taps a fingertip on the tabletop near the book in question, and Bella notes the flecks of dried paint dotting her skin: tiny little specks of yellow and green and blue that make her think of springtime.

Tyler's eyes flick to the same leather-bound diary that had been sitting at his elbow on his first kind-of date with Bella, the one he'd been writing in as he awaited the girls' arrival. "It's my master plan to take over the universe," he deadpans, and Kelsey nods in mock solemnity.

"And you don't think you should have a cute little padlock or something on it?" she asks, and Tyler's lips twist.

"I'll take it under advisement," he agrees, and glances over at Bella. "Your roommate's kind of a trip," he says, laughter in his voice and eyes.

"_Your_ roommate basically implied you were a kinky bastard the first time I met him and was wearing a flag as a cape," she reminds him, and he grins as he drapes an arm over the back of the bench seat behind her.

"So," he says, opting to ignore this simple truth entirely. "Do you girls want to go out tonight?"

"Go out…where?" Bella asks, shooting a look at Kelsey, who gives no indication either way.

"The Village Idiot. They're doing a Valentine's Day…thing. I can get you in."

"How?"

"I know the guy at the door." He hesitates before adding, "And the bartender."

Sharing a look with Kelsey, who arches her eyebrows in the universal "I'm in if you're in," Bella nods, even as a fleeting memory of too many daiquiris and the subsequent embarrassment hits her. "Okay," she says finally. "Sounds like fun."

"I'm in," Kelsey adds, looping the strap of her purse over her shoulder as she grabs her soda cup and starts scooting toward the end of the bench seat. "But now I have a class to get to. Bell, I'll see you at the room. Tyler…a pleasure."

Tyler nods. "Nice to meet you," he replies as Kelsey stands and half-waves as she heads for the exit. He tilts his head and gazes down at Bella. "Really, though. She's a trip."

"Again, I refer you back to the wonder that is Aidan."

Tyler laughs. "Point taken." He lifts his cup to his mouth and slurps before lowering it and gazing at the mammoth burrito she's still working on. "Okay, don't take this the wrong way, but…is it okay if I switch to the other side of the booth? I always bust people who sit on the same side and then stare out at…nothing."

Bella laughs, picking up a tortilla chip from her basket and dunking it in the salsa cup near her elbow. "Agreed. I mean, it's cool that they like each other and everything, but…y'know. Weird."

Grinning, he slides out of the booth and back in on the other side. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Terrific. I'll be sure to add it to my personal ad: 'Dismissive of same-side booth-sitting.'"

He laughs, and she takes a bite of her burrito. "Well, that's great and all, but I'm sort of hoping you've pulled your ad for the time being."

She feels the familiar pleasure warming her from within. "Done," she says around her mouthful, and he's still smiling as he lifts his straw to his lips.

"Fantastic." They sit, him slurping his soda and her finishing her lunch, and just as the silence is beginning to feel mildly awkward instead of comfortable, Tyler leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the tabletop and fiddling with his straw. "So my, uh…mother wants to meet you."

"What?" She's sure she doesn't make a particularly attractive picture in that moment, chewed-up burrito undoubtedly visible in her half-open mouth.

"Caroline asked about you, and my mother overheard, and now she's on a mission to meet 'the famous Bella.'" He looks embarrassed. "You really don't have to."

She can't tell from his rather obvious discomfort if he wants her to and doesn't want her to feel pressured, or if he doesn't want her to at all. She picks at the foil wrapped around her burrito. "When?"

"Whenever," he replies, pushing down the little bumps on the top of his lid that no one ever seems to use. _Cola. Diet. Other._

"Is that…do you want me to?"

He looks up at her, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Is that…would that be weird for you? I don't want you to feel pressured or anything."

He grins, and Bella's not sure what it is about this boy's smile that can reduce her this: a quivering, nervous, besotted puddle of a girl. "I want you to," he says simply, and she matches his smile.

"Okay, then."

He takes a slurp from his cup. "Okay, then."

* * *

Hours later, once she's done with her classes, showered, and dressed in her best guess as to what constitutes "bar-appropriate" attire, she's just fastening a necklace around her neck when the door to the room crashes open and Kelsey stands on the threshold, eyes bright and smile brighter. "Okay, don't be mad."

Bella frowns. "Huh?"

"Remember that totally cute guy from downstairs that I pointed out to you a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah."

"He just asked me to go to a movie with him. Are you going to think I'm totally lame if I ditch out on the bar thing with you and Tyler?"

"Definitely not," she replies, even though she's mildly skeptical of a guy who waits until Valentine's Day afternoon to ask a girl out for Valentine's Day night.

"You're awesome," Kelsey beams, grabbing her in a quick hug before pulling back. "Now, quick, before you go: help me decide what to wear."

Bella's eyebrow hitches. "Seriously? You're asking me?"

Almost reflexively, Kelsey glances down between them before her eyes lift and find Bella's. "Okay, I don't want you to get too ahead of yourself, but your look has been upgraded by leaps and bounds since last fall."

"Really?"

Kelsey nods. "Really. Girl…you look…hot. And not even skanky, 'look-at-my-ta-tas-hangin'-out' hot. Like, 'I'm-serious-and-studious-but-sexy-as-hell' hot. That's gotta be right up book-boy's alley."

Bella can feel the flush threatening to steal up her cheeks, but she takes a deep breath and meets her friend's eye. "Thanks." She grins. "You, on the other hand, should definitely let the ta-tas hang out.

Kelsey grins. "Oh, girl, I plan to."

Twenty minutes later, after offering minimal input but giving her approval of her roommate's sexy-yet-understated-with-just-a-hint-of-boob outfit, Bella is at Tyler's, waiting for him to get ready while she furtively surveys his bedroom, which could charitably be called "messy." The bed is unmade, there's a pile of laundry – clean or dirty remains unknown – in a basket in the corner, and his nightstand holds a leaning tower of books. There's another, different nightstand nowhere near his bed also covered with books, and mismatched sheets are draped above each of his windows. There's a short bookshelf between the windows crammed with even more books, and the bed's box spring sits on the floor, the mattress not quite lined up with its edges. It's chaos, but she sort of likes it. Spying the leather-bound book from earlier on the so-called nightstand, she asks, "So…what _is_ with the notebook, anyway?"

He shrugs. "It's just a journal."

"You're a writer?"

His fingers tap out an uneven beat on his thighs while he turns this over in his mind. "I'm still sort of figuring out what I am," he says finally, crossing the room to his closet and rummaging among the hangers.

"Is it private?" she asks, code for _Can I read it?_

"Sort of." Not an answer either way, but a half-smile teases his lips.

"I'd like to read something you've written," she says softly, recalling the intensity of writing-Tyler: the furrowed brow, lower lip caught between teeth, non-writing hand balling into a fist and releasing before curling up tight again, as if he's freeing secrets from one empty hand into the pen of the other. "Not necessarily out of there," she clarifies. "Just…something."

He shrugs. "Maybe," he allows, and in the past she might have felt like she had pushed too far, asked too much, but one of the best things she's discovering about Tyler is that whatever emotion he's feeling cannot be hidden. It's as if all of his feelings are simmering just beneath his calm surface, and when provoked, the appropriate one will have no trouble bubbling up. She is confident that, if she oversteps, he will let her know, and with that certainty has come an amazing amount of freedom.

She's sitting on his mismatched bed, taupe and gray plaid pillowcases against a black bottom sheet, when her eye falls on the blue ceramic ashtray on his windowsill. "You're a smoker?" she asks, frowning slightly, and he follows her gaze to the glass dish balanced rather precariously on the barely-there sill.

"Not anymore," he says simply, pulling open a dresser drawer and dragging out a clean shirt. "I was. But I promised Caroline I'd stop." He drops the clean shirt on the foot of the bed and reaches for the hem of the one he's wearing. "She already has one dead brother."

With that, he turns away and drags the hem upward and off; Bella's gaze fixes on the smooth contours of his back, the jut of his shoulder blades, the twin indentations just above the waistband of his dark jeans. She watches the muscles shift beneath his skin as he slides his arms into the sleeves of the black button-down, and as she glances past him to the small mirror on the opposite wall, she can see a hint of ink as he begins to button the shirt from the bottom.

"You have a tattoo?" she asks, and she sees him freeze momentarily, a visible tension tightening his shoulders as his hands stop at a button near his belly button.

"Yeah," he says finally, moving up to the next button. But his hands hesitate and his body stills, as if he is contemplating something, and his eyes meet hers in the mirror as if he's contemplating _her_. After another beat of silence, he turns and crosses the small room slowly, leaving his row of shirt buttons undone, the black scrawl only half-visible from behind the cotton of his shirt.

"Michael," she guesses, though she can only see _Mich._ _Please, don't let it say "Michelle," _she thinks fleetingly, stupidly.

"Michael," he confirms, and she reaches out and pinches the fabric of his shirt lapel, drawing it aside and pressing a single fingertip to the middle of the M. They stand there like that, his head bowed over hers like an umbrella, as if he's trying to shelter her from his sadness. She doesn't realize she's tracing that single letter over and over again until his voice, now hoarse, breaks the silence.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Your hands on me?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome. Beyond awesome. But also driving me crazy, and if you keep them there, we're not going to be celebrating Valentine's Day anywhere but in this bedroom."

Immediately, she snatches her hand back as heat crawls into her face, but she can't deny the surge of power at his words, at his utter disinterest in pretending he _doesn't_ want her. "Sorry," she mumbles, feeling anything but.

* * *

As they approach the hulking character standing at the entrance to the bar, Bella is reminded fleetingly, unexpectedly, of Emmett. Thankfully, the memory is virtually eclipsed by the ball of nerves churning in her stomach, the heavy thudding of her heart.

_I'm about to break the law_, she thinks, her palm sweating slightly where it is pressed against Tyler's. _I'm about to go into a bar and drink underage, and Charlie would have a freaking fit._ As they near the entrance, the monster of a man recognizes Tyler, and while he doesn't lose the stony grimace that appears to be as much part of his uniform as the black coat, black pants, black shoes, his eyebrows hitch slightly and he tips his chin in the faintest approximation of a nod.

"Hey, Brick," Tyler greets, and the bouncer does his almost-nod again.

"Hey, man. How's it goin'?"

"Good." They do a sort-of handshake, and Tyler pulls Bella forward slightly, releasing her hand to wrap his arm around her waist. "Brick, this is my girlfriend, Bella. Bella, this is Brick."

This does not look like the kind of man who would welcome a handshake – much less a clammy one – so she simply nods and half-waves. "Hi."

"Hello," he replies, then returns his focus to Tyler, arching an eyebrow in silent question. Tyler gives the barest of head-shakes, and Brick purses his lips slightly before exhaling heavily through his nose. "Valentine's Day," he says. "Enter at your own risk."

Tyler laughs, and Bella feels his hand relax against her hip, downgrading from clutching to rubbing gently. "Thanks, man. I should have brought you a red rose or something."

"You'd have been walking funny after what I'd do with that rose, Hawkins."

Bella joins in the laughter this time, the adrenaline spike from her first potential misdemeanor still thick in her veins. "Ouch," Tyler murmurs, guiding her through the door and into the pulsing, throbbing cavern of the dark club. Heart cutouts hanging from the ceiling are illuminated as shifting lights land on them briefly, and through the crowd, Bella can see that the rainbow row of bottles at the back of the bar is backlit by lights in shades of red, pink, and purple. As they approach the bar, Bella spots Aidan and a girl sitting in two stools near the corner; when she points, he nods and guides her in their direction with a gentle hand at the small of her back. As they approach, Aidan spies them and slides off his stool, offering it to Bella. She thanks him and slips into it, noticing the rose petals scattered atop the bar, which likely looked lovely before people started resting elbows and sweating glasses on them, but which now look sort of sad and crushed.

"What do you want to drink?" Tyler asks into her ear, and just as she had at the party, she shivers at the feel of his warm breath against her skin. She shrugs, embarrassed again at her inexperience, and he smiles down at her, a warm blend of amusement and affection in his eyes. "Daiquiri?" he asks, and she shakes her head. He lowers his head to listen, and she leans in.

"Maybe something less sweet?" she half-yells into his ear, and he pulls back to consider her for a moment before nodding. Glancing over at Aidan and his dark-haired date, who both hold almost-full glasses up to deter him from buying a whole round, he curls his body around her back, leaning one elbow on the bar and attempting to get the bartender's attention. It doesn't take long, and the dark-haired girl slides over to them, smiling at Tyler and eyeballing Bella as she slides a pair of clean cocktail napkins across the bar top, snagging a few rose petals along the way.

"Hey, Hawkins, long time, no see."

Bella thinks he might be blushing, but it's hard to tell in the dim, colored lighting of the bar. "Yeah," she hears him say. "How's it going?"

"Good," the girl replies. "Busy." She glances at Bella once more before propping both arms on the bar to either side of her, leaning forward only barely but enough to give him a peek down the low cut of her tank top. Bella watches Tyler's eyes, which ping-pong down and back up so quickly that she almost misses it. She smirks. _Busted. _"What can I get you?" the bartender asks, and Tyler's hand comes up to rest on her shoulder. "I'll have a Heineken, and she'll have a Grey Goose and ginger ale."

"Coming right up," she replies, disappearing up the bar to fill the order, and Tyler grins down at Bella.

Crooking her finger to get him to lean in, she says into his ear, "I'm assuming that's not the priest's daughter." When she pulls back, she's pleased to see that the slight flush is undeniable, even through the darkness. He shakes his head and she leans forward again. "Or the cop's daughter." He pulls back and shakes his head again, a faint smile curling his mouth. "Bartender fetish?" she asks, and one eyebrow hitches as he looks down at her, apparently weighing the merits of honesty.

Finally, he leans in again and actually presses his lips to the shell of her ear, so that she feels the rumble of his words as well as hears them. "More of a 'She gave me free drinks all night long and I was too hammered to find my own apartment' sort of situation." The words are there behind the words – _one-night stand_ – and yet his utter casualness about them, his relative lack of hesitation to acknowledge having had such an encounter, is like something out of a television show, something so far beyond the realm of her own dating experience that she feels surprised at its sudden appearance in her life.

"Oh," she says, as the bartender – the one-night stand girl – reappears and slides a tumbler and a beer bottle across the bar.

"Tab?" the girl asks, and Tyler nods, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and passing over a credit card. She nods in return and disappears to start the tab, and Tyler's watching Bella as he slides his wallet back into his pocket.

"Guess your days of free drinks are over, huh?"

He grins down at her. "Fine by me." Then, nodding toward her glass, "Try that."

She raises the glass, taking a hesitant sip through the tiny black straw, and is pleasantly surprised by the subtle taste, the lack of burn she'd experienced on her first foray into the wide world of booze. "It's good."

He nods. "That's a smooth vodka, and the soda is a lot less sweet than fruit juice." She takes another sip, and he laughs. "Just go easy. It'll go down pretty smoothly, but it'll still fuck you up." She nods and places the drink back onto the cocktail napkin in front of her, glancing to where Aidan is clearly doing his best flirting with the girl in the stool beside her. Bella feels slightly odd, sitting while Tyler stands beside her, but after a minute she turns slightly in her stool and he grins, reaching down to gently pry her knees apart and stepping into the "V" of space her spread legs make. He's barely even touching her, the denim of her inner thighs barely touching the outsides of his legs while hers hang off the wooden stool, but something about the way he simply reached out and moved her makes her heart beat a quicker rhythm in her chest. He arches one eyebrow as he looks down at her, the faint scar above it just visible in the bar lighting, as if he's checking that this is okay, and she smiles up at him and gives a barely perceptible nod. He matches her smile, running his hands gently up her thighs, not nearly high enough to be inappropriate, but her mouth goes dry and her breathing quickens and her stomach somersaults all the same.

He doesn't move as they down their first drinks, leaning into each other a little more than necessary to trade words, ignoring Aidan and his date and the bartender and everyone else as music thumps and lights flash and the nightlife swirls around them. He makes her laugh, and when she lets her head tip back to really guffaw, he covers her mouth with his, catching her by the best kind of surprise. And even though it's only a half-kiss, given that their mouths are both curled upward in smiles, it might be one of the best she's ever had.

A second round, and she can feel the same buzz she'd felt at the party beginning to hum through her veins, the lights taking on an oddly indistinct quality, her lips number than she'd like them to be if there's going to be more kissing in their future. Draining his bottle and leaning forward to place it on the bar, he leans into her ear again, pressing a kiss to the thin skin of her neck just below her earlobe before murmuring into her ear, "I've gotta take a leak."

She pulls back, laughing again, and she wonders if it's the liquor or just him that she's drunk on. Nodding and still chuckling, she realizes that at some point she's hooked her ankles around his calves; she frees him and he grins down at her, pecking her mouth before turning and jostling his way through the crush of bodies toward the back corner of the bar. "Another round?" the bartender asks, and Bella looks up, half-expecting bitterness or some other jealous-girl emotion to be playing out on the girl's face, but instead her features are open and friendly, an expectant smile on her face.

"Um, sure, I guess," she says, pushing the empties back across the bar. "Thanks."

As the drinks are mixed, she glances over to where Aidan appears to be recounting a circus act or some other remarkably acrobatic story for his date, who seems amused enough. His arms are waving and he's making ridiculous faces, and Bella muses absently that this animated clown seems an unlikely counterpart to her steady, serious Tyler.

Then again, the same could likely be said about her.

A fresh drink reappears before her along with a sweating dark brown bottle, and Bella returns her focus to the bartender, who grins. "On the house. Happy Valentine's Day." She winks and turns away to fill someone else's order, Bella's surprised "thanks" likely falling on deaf ears. She lifts the tiny straw of the tumbler to her lips and takes a sip, knowing as she does that if she finishes this drink, Tyler's going to be carrying her to the subway. She hopes it won't be rude to leave a free drink half-full.

"Well, hey there," comes a voice from behind her, and Bella glances over her shoulder to see a tall, dark-haired guy cradling a bottle of beer and eyeballing her with purpose.

"Hi," she says simply, turning back to her drink and angling her body ever-so-slightly more toward where Aidan is engrossed in conversation with his date.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks, and Bella holds up her glass without turning around.

"Got one. Thanks."

She knows nothing of bar etiquette, or alcohol protocol, but she knows what a guy buying a girl a drink means, and she has no interest in encouraging him. A rather muscular forearm appears on the gleaming black bar beside her own arm, and she turns her head to see that the guy has nudged his way between her and the next stool down, leaning against the bar and invading her personal space. She meets his eye, and is reminded fleetingly of Jacob and Sam and all of the Quileute boys who went from awkward adolescents to hulking, muscular man-children overnight. While his complexion isn't the same, the dark eyes, dark hair, bulky stature are familiar and, in this moment, more intimidating than any werewolf ever was.

"One drink," he says, entirely undeterred, and as she's opening her mouth to decline again, he reaches out and runs a fingertip along the back of her hand. Just as she snatches her hand away, a voice washes over his shoulder.

"Back the fuck up." The guy doesn't straighten, doesn't remove his arm from the bar top, doesn't give any indication that he's heard Tyler's voice apart from a bored and slightly amused glance over his shoulder.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, back the fuck up," Tyler spits, hot fury in his eyes, which look dark in the dim lighting of the bar. Barely suppressed rage is evident in his tone, his face, the curl of his fists by his sides, the rigid tension of his shoulders.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm her boyfriend."

The guy seems to find as much satisfaction in goading Tyler almost as he did in leering at Bella, and he turns back to her, leaning in even closer. "This kid?" he murmurs, as if they're sharing an inside joke, and Bella can taste liquor on his breath and see the haze of alcohol in his eyes for a moment before he's suddenly hurtling backward, his dress shirt pulled tight against his chest where Tyler has grabbed two fistfuls of it at the back and yanked him away. As soon as he's out of her space, Tyler shoves him aside, and he crashes into a cluster of three girls, sending glasses and ice cubes and sprays of booze falling to the floor. He rights himself and lunges for Tyler, who grabs him by the biceps as they turn in half-circles, bumping into other patrons as Aidan hops around them, attempting unsuccessfully to either join in the fray or break it up. Suddenly, Brick is thundering through the bar with a speed and agility Bella would have thought impossible given his sheer size, and he wraps his enormous arms around the other guy's upper arms, bear-hugging him from behind.

"Break it up!" he barks, and Tyler straightens, his shirt crooked on his frame and his eyes flashing. His cheeks are flushed and his chest heaves with each breath as he glares at the guy still struggling against Brick's hold.

"All right," he yelps. "Let me go."

"You're both out of here," Brick announces, unbanding his arms and pushing the guy toward the other bouncer who has just appeared behind him.

Tyler smoothes his hands over the front of his shirt before stepping closer to Bella, covering her hand with his and running his thumb over the back of it, as if he's wiping the idiot's unwelcome touch from her skin. He opens his mouth to say something when Brick's hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Let's go."

Half-turning, Tyler's barely-quelled anger flares again. "Listen, that asshole—"

Brick holds up a hand, cutting him off. "I know. Look, man, I get it, okay? We're cool. But you need to split because you and I both know that if any more shit does down, Ramey's gonna call the cops, and your girl will be in some serious shit."

As if it's the first time he remembers that Bella isn't twenty-one, the fire of fury in Tyler's eyes seems to dim slightly, and he swallows. "Right. Yeah. Okay. Sorry, man."

"No sweat," Brick says, clapping a beefy hand on Tyler's shoulder. "Just…go take your lady home and enjoy the rest of your night."

Tyler nods, and once Aidan assures him that he'll settle the tab, he leads Bella out to the curb. They hail a cab – too wired, too keyed up to descend underground, to stand on platforms, to _wait_ – and as the cab flies along streets and weaves its way around brake lights, that intense focus suddenly lights on her as Tyler runs his hands over her face, her shoulders, her arms. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For…getting into it with that dickhead. I shouldn't have done that."

"You think I'm going to be mad at you for standing up for me?"

"My father says I'm too quick-tempered and volatile for my own good."

"I'm not your father."

Finally, a small smile. "Good thing, too, because he's really not my type." His hand trails down over her arm and finds her hand on the cracked black leather seat between them; when he intertwines their fingers, he squeezes them nearly hard enough to make her wince. She's spent so much time thinking of herself as breakable, as fragile – and being treated as such – that it is this one, simple thing that brings her to the rather jarring realization that everything about Tyler makes her feel _stronger_ than she is, rather than the opposite. She doesn't realize she's staring at him until he frowns slightly in the fast-moving slip of passing streetlights. "What?"

"Nothing," she murmurs, dropping her gaze to their joined hands, when really, what she should have said was _"Everything."_

The taxi spits them out at the curb in front of his building, and it isn't until the cab has disappeared into the still-buzzing New York night that he turns to her, eyes slightly wide. "I'm sorry. I didn't…I just gave him my address. I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay," she says, and she can see the doubt and the hesitation warring with the relief and a faint trace of anticipation in his expressive blue-green eyes. She slips her hand back into his, and this time, she's the one squeezing. Without a word, he holds the door open and leads them up the stairs; the apartment is eerily quiet, lit in the sodium-yellow half-light of the city that filters in through the curtainless windows. They stand in the archway between living room and kitchen, Tyler watching her carefully and Bella feeling suddenly a little bit reckless, as if the ferocity that had been seeping from him on the ride home has bled into her.

"Can I stay?" she asks finally, feeling as though she's standing on the edge of a cliff – and she's _been_ on the edge of a cliff before, and why is this scarier?

"Please," he says, nothing more, and even though she doesn't know if it's just a reply or if he's asking her for more, she sheds her coat like old skin. He does the same before stepping into the bubble of her space and unwinding her scarf from around her neck, dropping it to the floor beside them. As he lowers his head, she rises to her toes, and when his mouth covers hers, she's treated to another realization: Tyler burns. He burns like fire in the places she became accustomed to ice, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she remembers the lines of a poem: _Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire._

As he licks a line of flame along her bottom lip, she wants nothing more than to feel him burn against her, hot and fiery, rage and passion and everything else that seems to light him from the inside out, ablaze with blistering intensity. As if he's read her mind – or, at least, as if he's feeling the same way she is – he trip-guides her backward through the apartment and into his room, half-falling atop her as they collapse on his mismatched bed sheets, and his hands trace heat along previously uncharted parts of her, up her side and up her thigh and up her stomach and up, up, up until she feels as though she could fly. She lets him peel layers from her skin, sweater and shirt and tank and jeans and socks, and with each layer she should be getting colder, but it's the opposite, her skin heating by degrees with every inch she bares.

Between ridding her of layers, he slips out of his own until they are pressed together with the barest of scraps between them, and he breathes into her neck, "Do you want me to get a condom?" She tenses, and he feels it in the sudden clench of her stomach beneath his, the tightening of her grip on his shoulders. "It's okay," he says immediately, lowering his mouth to her neck. "It's okay," he murmurs into her skin, resuming his kisses, the fire only barely banked.

"I want to," she whispers into the darkness, and he pulls back slightly to look into her face, his eyes soft.

"It's okay," he says again. "Not tonight." He doesn't push, doesn't elaborate, simply presses his mouth to hers and then licks fire along the tendon of her neck. "Can I touch you?"

"Yes," she whispers without hesitation, relief and arousal a heavy mixture in her stomach, desire a blaze somewhere lower. "Please."

Warm fingers find even hotter flesh and she bucks up into his touch, a small gasp falling from her lips as he whispers touches over the most intimate part of her. Later, after she falls apart and he falls apart and the flames reduce to embers, she falls asleep to a lullaby she's never heard: the slow, steady, beautiful thud of a heartbeat.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much to the lovely person or persons who nominated this story in the "Fic of the Week" poll over at The Lemonade Stand. I'm honored to be included with some truly amazing stories; if you're so inclined, hop on over to TLS and check out the poll: ._


	6. Chapter 5

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating:** M.

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA. Endlessly awesome. Incessantly hilarious. Thanks, lovely. xo

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"You're taking my mother flowers?"

Bella smoothes her hand over her jeans and glances at the bunch of obnoxiously bright Gerbera daisies she'd selected from the sidewalk bucket outside the nearby corner store on the way back from her last class of the day. "Um. Yes?"

Tyler grins. "Kiss-ass." Bella pretends to huff as she turns and glances around the room for her coat, but almost immediately she feels his warm lips at the top of her spinal column and she bites back a smile. "Kidding," he murmurs into her skin. "I'm only kidding." She can feel the heat of his hands against her hips through the cotton of her top, his soft breath washing over the back of her neck. Then the point of his nose is skimming up the side of her neck, his lips barely brushing her skin as he talks. "I missed you this week."

"I missed you too," she replies, tilting her head to the side in silent permission.

"You know, we could cancel. This is the woman who gave birth to me; she has to love me anyway."

"She doesn't have to love _me_, though," Bella replies, even if a larger part of her than she'd admit aloud would love nothing more than to stay in with Tyler and let him trace her skin with his fingertips. She can remember with perfect clarity what it felt like to have his heated touch skim over her flesh, a faint burn like a fingertip just passing through the point of a candle flame.

"True," he says, stepping back. "You, she could hate on sight."

"Very funny," she replies, even as she feels the nerves that have been churning in her stomach all day make a sudden and rather violent reappearance. She runs her hands over her outfit again, and Tyler's smile melts into a look of concern.

"You're nervous."

"Well, of course I'm nervous."

He cocks his head to one side. "Why?"

"I want them to like me."

"They will."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know. Come on." He doesn't give her more time to worry about the possibility that he could be wrong, grabbing her by the wrist and leading her to the door, where her coat hangs on the doorknob. Once she's bundled up and has the blooms clutched in her fist, he grins and places a soft kiss to her temple. "Showtime."

By the time they're standing on the stone steps of a gorgeous brownstone on the Upper West Side, the anxiety that has been quietly simmering since Tyler first mentioned meeting his parents two weeks ago are very nearly at a full boil. She's shifting her weight and the plastic around the flowers crackles in her faintly sweating hand. "Breathe," she hears Tyler murmur as he reaches out and presses the buzzer. "My mother's really not scary. Les is a teddy bear. And Caroline you already know." His head tips back to glance up at the façade of the building, and she strains to hear sounds of movement from within.

"You don't have a key?" she asks.

"I do," he replies, returning his focus to her face. "But this was never my home."

Before she can respond, the door swings open and a woman stands in the entryway, one hand on the door's edge and a bright smile on her face. She's beautiful in the refined, elegant way of middle-aged women who are comfortable in their bodies and their lives, and something about her reminds Bella fleetingly of Esme until she remembers that, for all intents and purposes, Esme was only twenty-six; she never even got close to anything resembling middle age. "You must be Bella!" The woman's smile is bright and her eyes are a deep brown; she's wearing diamond studs in her earlobes and a black cashmere sweater atop faded blue jeans. Her feet are bare.

"Bella, this is my mother, Diane."

"It's really nice to meet you," Bella says, holding out the bunch of flowers and feeling immediately ridiculous. But Diane beams and accepts the bouquet graciously, gushing over the bright colors and leaning in to give Bella a hug as she and Tyler step through the door. Almost unconsciously, she notes the features of Tyler's that she can see in his mother: hair the color of cinnamon, eyes that crinkle when she smiles, the same slightly cleft chin. Ushering them inside, Diane takes their coats and leads them into the heart of the brownstone, the entryway opening up into a surprisingly open kitchen and living room.

Despite comments about his father's business successes, it isn't until she's standing in his mother's home that she realizes that Tyler comes from wealth. The home isn't grandiose nor ostentatious, but understated comfort is combined with casual elegance that hints at money. If this is the home that belongs to a social worker and a public aid attorney, Tyler's father's alimony checks must really be something.

She wonders absently if this is why Tyler dresses, in Kelsey's estimation, like he's homeless. If his lack of desire to wear designer is an attempt to shrug off where he comes from – a direct contrast to her desire to wear her roots like body armor. Or scars.

"Les, hon, this is Bella," Diane says, and a tall man with more salt than pepper hair swivels where he stands in front of the stove with a wooden spoon in hand.

He smiles, and waves the spoon in greeting, a splat of sauce falling to the tiled kitchen floor. "Whoops," he says, glancing down before looking back up. "Hi. Nice to meet you, Bella. I've been relegated to stirring duty."

Bella nods, smiling, and she feels the muscles along her spine loosen. It seems ridiculous, but that simple moment – sauce falling to the floor and no one dashing forward with a $100 hand towel to wipe it up – makes her feel less like an impostor. "It's really nice to meet you, too." She glances around the kitchen. "Can I, um, do anything?"

"Yes," Diane pipes up. "You can grab a drink and go relax with Tyler and Caroline in the living room until dinner's ready." She smiles. "Just a few more minutes, provided that Les hasn't ruined the sauce in the sixty seconds it took me to answer the door." Her words are tempered by the adoring smile she tosses his way, and Les rolls his eyes good-naturedly and turns back to the stove.

"Wine?" Tyler murmurs in her ear, and she flushes, shaking her head. He smirks. "Coke?"

"Perfect."

She has taken barely two sips of her soda when Diane calls everyone to the table, and she is oddly relieved to find herself sandwiched between Tyler and Caroline. Throughout dinner, Bella answers all of Diane's relatively unintrusive questions and participates somewhat in the discussion, but she takes the opportunity to observe this part of Tyler's family, realizing she's searching for clues about the boy she loves in the people who love him. Les reminds her almost immediately of Charlie: content to be in the background, soft-spoken and steady. The way he is with Caroline – gentle, calm, quietly affectionate – reminds her of how Charlie has always been with her, even when she only visited him once a year, and she misses him with a sudden, sharp pang in her chest. She finds she can't shake the immediate comparison that she made between Diane and Esme; the woman reminds her so much of the vampire matriarch in numerous ways, from the little – hair color, build, eye-crinkling smile – to the big – inner calm, nurturing nature, welcoming presence.

Despite the fact that they clearly come from vastly different backgrounds, Bella finds herself surprised by the ways in which Caroline reminds her of herself when she was younger: restrained, introverted, clearly accustomed to spending the majority of her time around adults.

But perhaps the most surprising observation that she makes is of Tyler: how he at once relaxes in the presence of his family, but also steps into a protective, almost paternal role. He treats Les like a peer, not a surrogate father figure, and he's constantly checking to make sure his mother and sister have what they need. He's relaxed in a way she doesn't usually see him, and yet he seems to be on alert, trying to be something, though she isn't quite sure what.

By the time dinner is done and the table is cleared, Diane urges everyone to relocate to the living room for dessert. Bella excuses herself to use the restroom, and on her way back, stops in the hallway in front of a wall of photographs. Tyler. Caroline. An older boy who must be Michael. All of the kids together. All of the kids with their mother. Tyler and Caroline, in a photo that couldn't have been taken more than a year or two ago, both with smiles considerably dimmer than those from the earlier photos. Tyler and Michael in a photo together, Tyler's birdlike preteen arm draped awkwardly around the muscled shoulders of his older brother.

"Tyler idolized Michael." The voice from behind her makes Bella jump, and she's just opening her mouth to apologize when Diane's hands come up to rest briefly on her shoulders before reaching out to straighten the picture frame. "He always did. That's why what happened was especially hard on him. Not only did he lose his big brother, but he felt like his hero had let him down. He'd never admit it to anyone, probably not even to himself, but he's been angry with Michael ever since." She smiles sadly. "He's been angry with everyone ever since."

Bella frowns slightly as she returns her focus to the picture on the wall, trying to align this angry boy Diane's speaking of with the passionate, burning, almost-man she's falling in love with. As if she's read her mind, Diane laughs. "Until recently, anyway. He seems…lighter lately. Originally I thought it was because he and his father were working some things out, but now…" She trails off, giving Bella a pointed look. "I think there's something more to it."

Bella flushes, not knowing what to say and not wanting to say anything that might be construed as spilling Tyler's secrets. "He seems like a really good big brother," she settles on finally, and Diane's amusement morphs into a tender affection.

"He is." She glances beyond them, to where Tyler is allowing Caroline to give him a "tattoo" on his forearm with her felt-tipped markers. "It's understandable," she admits, a faraway look in her eyes. "It's as if he's made a promise to himself that he'll never let Caroline down the way Michael let him down. I don't know if he would even think of it that way, but…" She trails off before hitching her slender shoulders in a shrug. "I don't know. I'm sorry. This is awfully serious talk for your first visit."

"I don't mind," Bella says, watching Tyler and Caroline laugh. "It's nice to spend time with a family." The moment the words are out of her mouth, she remembers the Cullens – not Edward or even Alice, but the others: Carlisle's paternal affection, Esme's maternal nurturing, Emmett's big-brotherly protectiveness, Jasper's quiet almost-affection, Rosalie's…well, sisterly bitchiness. She realizes, perhaps for the first time, how much she's missed _all_ of them, and acknowledges the family-sized hole they'd briefly filled in her life before vanishing. Somehow, in the wake of their exodus from Forks, Charlie's small house had felt even emptier, even lonelier, even though she'd spent her entire life the only child of one single parent or the other.

"Well, you can come by any time," Diane says, squeezing her forearm gently, then adding, "with or without Tyler" and a wink.

Bella laughs. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

"Do."

"Hon?" Les calls from the kitchen. "Does this pot-thing go in the dishwasher?" Diane rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Men." She disappears from the short hallway, and Bella lets her eyes wander of the row of photos once more before joining Tyler and Caroline in the living room.

By the time strawberry napoleons have been devoured, Tyler and Bella have matching heart tattoos in markered ink on their forearms, and the city beyond the windows has faded from daylight to twilight, Tyler stretches and presses a kiss to Bella's temple before disappearing down to the street to hail a cab. Bella rises to retrieve her coat, but Caroline bounces off the sofa and holds up her small, ink-smudged hands.

"Wait," she says, disappearing down the hallway for a few moments before returning with a piece of paper rolled up like a scroll and held closed with a purple rubber band. "It's a picture of Tyler."

"For me?"

Caroline nods, giving her a shy smile and a small shrug. "You're Tyler's girlfriend."

Bella blushes, feeling a shy smile of her own stretching her face as she takes the paper tube from the young girl. "Thank you." She holds it up. "Should I look at it now?"

"Nah," Caroline says, just as the familiar weight of Tyler's hand rests on her shoulder. "Cab's waiting," he murmurs into her ear, and she nods once before grinning at Caroline again.

"Thanks again," she says, holding up the drawing before shrugging into the coat Tyler is holding open behind her. She thanks Les and Diane once more and follows Tyler to the street, sliding into the backseat of the cab ahead of him.

"I hope that didn't freak you out," he says once they're moving, and a rare spark of insecurity alights in his eyes.

"What?"

He chuckles lowly. "Right. Which part, right?" She shakes her head but says nothing. "Caroline calling you my girlfriend like that. I mean, I know it's pretty clear from where we're sitting, but y'know…I don't want you to feel pressured by my family. They can be…a little…_into_ people's business sometimes. Mine in particular."

She smiles, tipping her head back to rest against the cab's seat. "It didn't freak me out."

It's funny, she realizes as the cab slides through the city streets, how, despite the obvious connection, not once was she referred to as Edward's girlfriend. Never was such an innocent, seemingly innocuous, _happy_ term applied to their relationship. Every single reference to her in regard to him painted her as a possession, or something to be resisted: his mate. His singer. His heroin. (Not to be confused with _heroine_.)

"Your family's really great," she adds, her fingers sliding between his while she holds Caroline's gift in her free hand, careful not to crush it. "Les seems nice."

"He's good for my mother," Tyler agrees, running his thumb over the knuckle of her thumb as the western edge of Central Park slides by the cab's window, trees silhouetted in the darkness. "My mother's a feelings person – she's a social worker, she's a hands-on mom, she's very…emotional. My father is the opposite: he's very cool, very reserved with his emotions, very…all business, all the time. They say opposites attract, but in my parents' case, I think it was more a case of opposites imploding." He half-shrugs. "Anyway, Les is good for her. He's much more…affectionate and supportive. And he's good for Caroline for those same reasons."

"He sort of reminds me of my dad."

"The illustrious Chief of Police?" Tyler teases, his eyes sparkling in the dim light of the cab's interior.

"The very one. My dad is…quiet like that, too. Reserved. But gentle."

"I'd like to meet him," Tyler says, and Bella feels her breath catch in her throat.

"I don't see him coming to New York anytime soon," she says, and Tyler shrugs.

"Maybe I'll have to check out Forks, Washington, then." She has no response for that, and instead falls silent, watching the city that feels more like home with every passing day slip by.

Eventually the cab deposits her at the curb outside her dorm, and Tyler glances up at the building's façade before giving her a half-smile. "I wish you were coming home with me."

She feels like something in her chest has wings, and her answering smile is more than half. "I wish I didn't have a lit paper to write so that I _could_ go home with you."

His eyes flash, and heat courses through her, despite the chill that lingers in the early March air. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I have class until three."

He frowns. "My shift at the bookstore starts at two."

"I might need some new books," she says, and his frown melts into a smile.

"I'm confident in my ability to help you find some."

"I'll be there."

The kiss he gives her melts her, scorches her, ignites her, and when she finally slips into bed hours later, paper saved on her hard drive, she can still feel the warmth of him coursing through her veins.

* * *

"Girl, I feel like I haven't seen you in _weeks_!" Kelsey exclaims as they lower themselves into the booth at the pizza place near their building, twin plates of cheese pizza on trays between them.

"Oh, please. You see me every night."

"Spying you asleep in your bed does not count," Kelsey argues, lifting her plate off the tray and grabbing the red pepper shaker from beside the napkin canister. "I mean _seeing_ you, like this," she elaborates, dousing her slice in pepper flakes. "That book-boy been keeping you under wraps?" She arches a suggestive brow, and Bella flushes.

"No. I mean, not like that. We've been…hanging out."

"Mmm-hm. 'Hanging out?'"

"Yeah. Like…I don't know. Having dinner. Watching movies. Y'know…hanging out."

"See, now I don't know if my feelings should be hurt. You ditching me to do the nasty with him I could understand, but for movies and dinner?" She blows out a breath of disapproval, and Bella grabs the parmesan shaker and sprinkles her own slice. "I _know_ you've slept over – you telling me that boy's keeping his hands to himself?" The look of disbelief on her face is almost comical.

"He…keeps his hands where I tell him to keep them."

Kelsey's eyes brighten. "Nice! So it's not all Disney G-rated. He go down on you yet?"

"_Kelsey!"_ Bella hisses, eyes darting around, but that's yet another awesome thing about New York: it's generally too noisy to eavesdrop, and even when it's not, people don't really give a shit about other people's conversations. "No," she mutters. "We're…not there yet."

"Well girl, where the hell on the map _are_ you?"

"We're…um…approaching the coastline?"

Kelsey frowns. "Okay, I have no idea what that means."

Bella takes a large bite of her pizza, and her roommate rolls her eyes at the rather obvious delaying tactic. "You'd better chew that fast, or I'll start asking leading questions at a _rather loud volume._" She very nearly yells the last three words, and Bella very nearly chokes as she hurries to swallow.

"Okay, okay, Jesus. We've, um…made out. And…touched. A little. Well, he touched me. But…y'know. That's it."

"Wait a minute. He touched _you_, but you didn't touch him?"

"Um. Not exactly."

Her eyes narrow. "What does 'not exactly' mean?"

"I mean…he…got off. You know, like…by…rubbing against me. But we didn't actually…_I_ didn't do it."

"Oh, girl. So you don't even know what type of goods you're dealing with!"

"I…sort of do," Bella argues, remembering the vague feeling of his boxer-clad erection pressed against her bare thigh, but she can hear the lameness in her own thin denial.

"Check it out. That's all I'm saying. You know that old adage, 'No one buys the cow when they're getting the milk for free'?" Bella nods, and Kelsey mirrors the nod before continuing. "Well, check out the sausage before you buy the whole pig, that's all I'm saying."

Bella grins despite her mortification, lifting her slice to her mouth once again. "Thanks for the pointers." Taking a bite, she turns the tables. "So…what's the latest with Valentine's Day date-boy?"

Following dinner, Bella makes her way down Broadway in the direction of the Strand, pleased by the uncharacteristically warm evening that allows her to forego digging in her bag for a hat and gloves. It's nearly ten o'clock, and she can't help but wonder what her father would think about her walking around the city alone after dark, eating dinner at nine-thirty at night. It's one of many things she'll never tell him, but a tiny part of her worries what he'll think of her as she becomes more big-city and less small-town. She wonders if it will be obvious when she goes home, how much more comfortable she is now in New York than she is in Forks. Passing a bus shelter, she sees a movie poster for _The Mexican_, and wonders idly if Tyler would be interested in seeing it. She really likes Julia Roberts, even if she doesn't get nearly as excited over Brad Pitt as most breathing women seem to. Approaching the Strand, she eyeballs the discounted carts on the sidewalk before pulling the door open and quickly scanning the floor. Even as she does, she knows Tyler won't be immediately visible; she has already learned that he prefers to bury himself deep in the stacks, shelving and organizing, rather than lurking near the more populated parts of the store, where interaction with customers is more frequent. After a quick sweep of the main level and determining that Tyler isn't on it, she heads down to the basement. After a few laps, she finally spies his tousled hair and hunched shoulders at the end of a long aisle, a cart with a stack of books beside him and a ladder resting against the shelf a few feet away. She is struck not for the first time by how good-looking he is, how physically attracted to him she is, and she feels a very instinctual awareness of his presence prickle the skin at the back of her neck and inside the crooks of her arms.

He is blissfully unaware of her as she approaches, and she resists the urge to try to scare him. "Excuse me, do you have Virgil's _Doomed Love_?" she asks, and he spins, already smiling.

"Sorry, ma'am," he replies. "No doomed love of any kind to be found here." She grins, and in a moment of moxie that will baffle her later, grabs him by the chain that holds his nametag and drags him against her, his mouth instantly covering hers. Spines of books dig into her back and a shelf presses into her hips as Tyler's tongue slides against hers, leaving traces of cinnamon gum and coffee in its wake as he retreats and presses a soft kiss to her lips.

"Hi," he murmurs.

"Hi," she replies, still fingering the metal chain of his nametag, her voice faintly breathless.

"How was dinner?"

"Good. How's work?"

He shrugs. "Workish."

She smiles. "When do you get off?" she asks, and when he leers, she blushes.

Chuckling, he presses another chaste kiss to her mouth. "Half an hour. Wait for me?"

"I'll be down here somewhere."

"I'll come find you." He scratches behind his ear. "Do you, uh, have anything to read?" She casts a pointed glance around them, at the looming shelves crammed full of books, and he chuckles. "No, I…" He tugs on his earlobe before reaching behind him and pulling a roll of small, cream-colored paper from his back pocket.

"What's this?" she asks when he holds it out to her.

"That's…some of my writing. You said you wanted to read it." Almost immediately, insecurity crashes over him. "I mean, you don't have to. It's not anything special. It's just that you asked, and…"

Bella cuts him off with a fingertip to his lips. "Thanks. I want to."

"It's, uh…mostly to Michael," he says carefully, watching her face intently. "That's sort of…who I'm writing to, most of the time. I mean, it's not all about him. I just…" He shrugs. "I'm not really the 'Dear Diary' type." He gives a self-deprecating smile, but it does little to temper the vulnerability lurking in the blue-green depths of his eyes.

"Thank you," she says again, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

* * *

"They've cut me loose," comes the voice from behind her not twenty minutes later, but she can't quite bring herself to look up from the curled pages she's holding flat on the table before her.

"Tyler, these are really good," she says, rereading one entry for what must be the third time. All of the "letters" are dated at least three years ago, but the obvious gift he has for stringing words together is evident. She wonders idly what the letters look like now, figuring he can only have improved with time; on the heels of that, she wonders faintly if giving her things he wrote so long ago was an effort to give her an in while still erring on the side of self-preservation. Finally looking up, she sees him shifting his weight.

"Uh. Thanks." He raises his eyebrows. "Ready to go?"

She nods, taking his cue and rolling the sheets back up, snapping the rubber band back around them from her wrist. As she stands, she holds them out to him; he takes them gently, sliding them into the rear pocket of his jeans. He helps her into her coat, and she falls into step beside him, following him to retrieve his own jacket and clock out before emerging onto the city streets once again. They walk in relative silence for a block before she hears Tyler clear his throat, and she peeks over at him.

He meets her eye and gives her a small smile. "So…can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Valentine's Day. What we...almost did. After the bar." She feels fire stealing across her face, the heat growing as she returns her gaze to the sidewalk in front of them.

"Yeah." The word is practically a croak, and she feels her blush deepen.

"Was that…I mean…am I…will I…_would_ I…be…the first?"

She digs her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat, hugging it tighter to her body despite the fact that she's not particularly cold. "It was that obvious, huh?"

He shrugs, and she can feel the three-year and big-city-meets-small-town discrepancies in their relationship with rather sickening clarity. "No," he says softly. "Not obvious. Just…a hunch."

"I feel stupid," she admits.

His face creases into a frown. "Why?"

She's still staring at the ground, unable or unwilling to meet his eyes. "Because you're the kind of guy who has one-night stands with hot bartenders, and I'm the small-town virgin who had never even _been_ in a bar until that night. I just…I don't know why you like me." Realization is a brick wall she hits full-speed, cracking defenses like rib bones: it's the same question she never had the courage to ask Edward. The familiar wave of insecurity is nearly enough to make her feel sick.

"Hey." Tyler's voice is as sharp as she's heard it, and it takes her a few steps to realize that he's stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. "Look at me."

She halts and turns, lifting her gaze to meet his fiery eyes as he closes the distance between them. "Bella, you're…" He shakes his head. "You're amazing. I've never known anyone like you. I _like_ that we're different. I _like_ your small-town-girl things. I like everything about you." He frowns again. "Except the fact that you really don't see yourself clearly. At all." A dose of shame joins her insecurity, and she relocates her focus to the zipper of his coat. Her mind flashes briefly back to Edward telling her that same thing before she shoves the memory away. Tyler is silent for a few beats before speaking again; when he does, his voice is uncertain. "Okay. Listen. I don't…really do this."

"Do what?" she asks his jacket.

"Love stuff. I don't…I've never really done it. I mean, except once. Sort of. But…okay. One of your firsts might be with me, so I'm giving you one of mine." He blows out a nervous breath, and the uncharacteristic uncertainty is enough to drag her focus back to his face. "I love you. Like…a ridiculous amount, considering that we haven't really known each other all that long. But I do. Like that stupid, sappy, think-about-you-all-the-time thing." He flushes. "I even made a Bella-shelf of all the books that remind me of you."

She feels her eyebrows tug upward. "A Bella-shelf?"

This time, he's the one who looks down. "I told you. Sappy."

"What's on it?"

"_Manhattan When I Was Young. Little Women. To Kill a Mockingbird. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._" He pauses only long enough to smirk._ "_I wanted to include _Town Mouse and Country Mouse_, but we were surprisingly without a copy."

"_Little Women_ is one of my favorites." Her voice is barely audible, and she wants to ask him what it was about each of the books that reminded him of her, but she's having trouble finding her voice.

"So…okay," he says, pushing his hair back from his face. "You can trust me, okay? I don't have the greatest track record, and my family is sort of a mess, and _I'm_ sort of a mess, but…" He trails off with an apologetic shrug. "I'm basically in love with you, so it would be great if you could just…believe that." His voice goes soft. "I won't hurt you. I promise." A cloud passes over his features. "I won't do to you what he did to you." He's said it before, but this time, she believes him. When she meets his eyes, they're frowning. "Do you still…am I still competing with him?"

She's surprised that her head-shake is instant, that she doesn't even have to think about it. "No," she says honestly. "You haven't been for a while."

Something in his shoulders and around the edges of his eyes relaxes, and she hadn't realized until that moment how very aware he still was of her mysterious ex, of Edward's looming presence in the back corners of her mind, jumping to the forefront occasionally for the sake of comparison.

"It's just you. For me." She rises to her toes and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm yours now."

"Mine?" he asks against her lips, and she nods, kissing him again.

"Yours."

"Will you come over?" he asks into her mouth.  
"Yeah," she says immediately, then hesitates. "I, um. I need to go back to my dorm first, though."

"I can lend you clothes to sleep in," he says softly, and she feels the flush of embarrassment color her face.

"No, I need…I mean…it's…I need…girl-products."

"Oh," he says, frowning slightly, then, as realization dawns, his eyebrows jump. "Oh! Right. Okay. Yes, definitely. Or…we could just stop at a drugstore. There's a Duane Reade on the corner of my block."

"Oh," she says, considering. "Okay, then." Almost immediately, though, she regrets the words. Is he really going to stand in the store with her while she buys a box of tampons? That said, she remembers a health teacher from high school saying that if a girl didn't feel comfortable talking about her period and sex with a boy, she shouldn't be considering having sex with him. Squaring her shoulders against the invisible challenge, she nods. "Okay, then."

By the time they're in his apartment, box of feminine hygiene products in a plastic bag in her fist, she's feeling stupidly triumphant, as if the procuring of tampons in his presence is some kind of milestone. She follows him through the semi-dark apartment, picking her way around the debris scattered throughout his very oddly-decorated apartment as they make their way into his bedroom. He pulls a pair of dark sweatpants and an American Natural History Museum t-shirt from a pile of what she hopes is clean laundry and hands them to her, gesturing toward the bathroom. "Ladies first."

Once they're both ready for bed, she slides between his mismatched sheets and he does the same, curling his body toward her and gazing at her through the yellow light seeping in through his windows. She traces the outline of his features: the strong line of his jaw, the gentle slope of his nose, his stubbled cheekbones.

"Thank you for letting me read your stuff today," she murmurs, poking the slight cleft of his chin with the tip of her finger.

"You're welcome."

"Have you ever thought about actually doing that? Like, being a writer?"

She can see his lips twist in the dim light. "My brother told me that the day he became a professional musician was the day he fell out of love with making music."

"Oh." She traces his sideburn.

"It started out as therapy," he murmurs after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable.

She frowns, running the pad of her finger over his eyebrow and the scar above it. "What did?"

"The writing. It was…Caroline and I saw a child psychiatrist after Michael died. She suggested I try writing to Michael to help myself sort out some of my feelings about his suicide. I guess it sort of took on a life of its own."

"Does it help?"

"Sometimes." He's quiet for a few moments, and, not wanting to push, she contents herself with resuming her gentle touches against his skin. "I saw him that morning," he says finally, and her hand stills against his temple. "The morning he did it. We went to breakfast at this diner we always went to downtown. I had eggs Benedict and he had a Belgian waffle. Belgian waffles were always his favorite breakfast food, but he didn't always order them because he said he wanted them to be special – like something he didn't get to have often. But he ordered them that morning, and I remember being glad because he'd been having such a shitty time since he started working for my dad, but that morning he seemed…happy." He pauses to swallow, and Bella lowers her hand from his face to press against the bare skin of his chest. She can feel his heart thumping unsteadily behind his sternum. "That's what I still can't get over. He seemed so…happy. That morning. So alive. I've gone over it a hundred times in my mind, and it doesn't make any sense to me. Either he knew when he was sitting across the table from me what he was going to do, in which case how the hell could he act so happy, or he didn't know, in which case what the hell went so wrong between then and a few hours later when I found him hanging from the ceiling?"

Bella's eyes widen and she can feel the sharp pain of bone-deep sympathy clawing its way up her throat. "_You_ found him?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I found him." He's silent for a moment before continuing. "The thing about Michael was, he always seemed so…_big._ I mean, part of that was because I was his little brother, and he was six years older than I was, so he always _was_ bigger than I was, you know? But there was also something…he just seemed larger than life. Especially when he was up on stage, making music – that was really when he seemed…almost god-like. But Michael…even when he was just being Michael, he seemed so _big._ So alive. And when I found him that day, he was hanging from the ceiling, so you'd think he'd seem bigger than ever, right? Except he didn't. He was three feet off the floor, closer to the ceiling than the carpet, but hanging there, he seemed…small. For the first time in my whole life, my big brother seemed _small_. And I realized that what made him big…it was what was inside him. It wasn't the fact that he was older, or bigger, or on stage – it was just Michael. And I'm so pissed off that in the last memory I have of him, he wasn't big at all." Tyler closes his eyes and rubs his face forcefully against the taupe cotton of his pillowcase, and Bella knows without seeing them that he's wiping away tears.

"What did he look like at breakfast?"

"What?"

"Did he look big at breakfast?"

"Yeah. He looked…like Michael."

She runs a hand over the warm plane of his chest. "Maybe that was because he _felt_ big. I don't know your dad, and I didn't know your brother, but maybe…" Fleetingly, she remembers the rush of power she felt soaring off a cliff, accelerating on a motorcycle, jumping on the back of a deadbeat's bike. "Maybe, even though the decision he made was awful, and selfish, maybe he felt like he was taking control of his life. Maybe that was why he seemed happy. Why he ordered his favorite breakfast. Maybe…maybe it was peace that he felt. Maybe that moment – having breakfast with you, just being happy in the moment – maybe that was just how he wanted to feel forever. Maybe he wanted those last, perfect moments before he did what he did. And maybe it's special that he chose to spend them with you." She forces her voice to go even softer. "Maybe…that's what you have to try to remember as his last moments. Breakfast with your brother and Belgian waffles. Because, by the time you found him? Tyler, that wasn't Michael anymore. By then, what made him so big – what made him Michael – it was already gone."

The sob that tears from his throat makes her own heart seize in her chest, and as she wraps her arms around him, she can feel the depths of his pain in the shaking of his body. She strokes his back, listening to his sorrow, remembering briefly being the one sobbing in the dark, and her father's unwavering presence. She realizes suddenly, immediately, the value of having someone to hold you when you cry in the darkness, and her hold on him tightens involuntarily. When his sobs finally quiet and he's hiding his face in his pillow, she runs a palm over the curve of his shoulder muscle. "Tyler?"

"Yeah." His voice is muffled, and she knows he's embarrassed.

"Caroline…she looks at you like you're bigger than life, too." He doesn't respond, his face still buried. "But you don't have to be perfect for her, y'know? She's going to love you no matter what."

The sudden, hot press of his mouth to hers is surprising, but she melts into his kiss without protest. "Thank you," he breathes against her mouth. "God, Bella, I'm sorry to turn into such a pathetic mess. But…thank you."

"Stop it. You're not. You're…wonderful." She's glad for the darkness, as it hides what she's sure is a pretty telling blush.

"Come away with me," he breathes against her mouth.

"What?" she says, dazed by his kisses as much as his words, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. They slide open and gaze back at her levelly.

"Next week. Spring break. My father has a cabin in the Catskills he uses during ski season and sometimes in the summer, on the rare occasions that he takes a break from work. I do have to work, but we can go for a long weekend."

"Okay," she whispers, feeling his body relax against hers, and it isn't until his breathing evens out into the steady rhythm of sleep that realization washes over her. He said he loved her, and she didn't say it back. She didn't say it back, but the reality of it is thrumming steadily in her chest, buzzing behind her ears, and she feels as if she's bursting with the euphoric truth of it. It bubbles up in her, heady and all-consuming, an inferno similar to what she feels when he touches her, and the words she didn't say feel like marbles she might choke on if she doesn't spit them out.

"Tyler?" He doesn't answer, and she scoots closer, until their noses are nearly touching. Reaching a hand out, she brushes her fingertips over his forehead, brushing a few strands of hair back from his face. "Tyler?" she whispers again, and his eyebrows pinch together slightly. "Tyler."

"Hm?"

"Hey," she says, needing the reassurance of his blue-green eyes.

They slide open and his lips purse in mild confusion before his eyes slide closed again. "Hmm?"

"I love you." He doesn't say anything, so she scoots even closer, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone. "Okay? Tyler, I love you, too."

His eyes don't open again, but a small smile curls the corners of his mouth. "Love you," he murmurs before his breathing evens out again and the crease in his forehead smoothes.

Bella smiles into the darkness and ducks her chin, curling into the hollow made by his concave posture and draping her arm over his hip, letting the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing lure her into sleep.


	7. Chapter 6

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M.

**Acknowledgement: **A bottomless well of gratitude, as always, for HollettLA, whose utter perfection could never be compensated with any amount of wine or Diet Coke. But that won't stop me from trying. xo

* * *

**Chapter Six**

It isn't until they are flying along the lower level of the George Washington Bridge that Bella stops staring in amazement at the various features and luxuries of the interior of Tyler's father's Infiniti QX4 SUV. Between Renee's Volkswagen van and Charlie's police cruiser, Bella can honestly say she hasn't spent much time in luxury vehicles, with the exception of her ride to a ballet studio in Carlisle Cullen's Mercedes, and at the time, her mind had certainly been on other things. The SUV that was double-parked at the curb outside her building this morning and in which she is now riding is the kind of car wherein she's afraid to touch anything, lest she leave a fingerprint smudge on the dashboard. Peering out the window, she spots the spire of the Empire State Building and the majestic Twin Towers at the southernmost point of the island, the faces of the buildings gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.

Resting her head against the headrest, she watches the city shrink, amazed at the sense of ownership she feels toward it, the complete absence of the intimidation it once instilled in her. She wonders if everyone finds it so easy to call a new place home, or if it is a byproduct of her transient childhood, a result of the influence of her mother's wanderlust.

"You're quiet," Tyler observes, shaking her from her thoughts, and she relocates her focus to his face, beautiful in profile. One wrist is draped over the black leather-wrapped steering wheel, the other elbow resting on the center console between them, eyes hidden by the black frames of his sunglasses.

"Just…looking at the city," she replies, glancing back over her shoulder to the skyline that grows smaller as they travel farther away. "It's pretty."

Tyler glances in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"You don't really think of it that way, do you?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess not. I've lived here my whole life; after a while, I suppose you just stop noticing a place."

She turns that over in her head but realizes that he's speaking of something she's never experienced; after all, she's never stayed in a place long enough to find out. "Do you think you'll always live here?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. Maybe." His head turns slightly toward her before he refocuses on the road. "What about you? Think you'll head back to Washington after school?"

"No," she says, surprising even herself with the immediacy of her response. From the way his eyebrows hitch over the rims of his shades, she can tell Tyler's surprised as well. "I don't…it never really felt like I belonged there."

"Hm." He doesn't say anything else, and she realizes that's another thing she likes about this boy: he never pushes. As they drive farther north, urban becomes suburban, and he lets her play radio deejay until she allows Matchbox Twenty's "If You're Gone" to play for a fourth time, and he growls in disapproval. "Okay. No more Top 100."

"Oh, come on…this is a good song!" She mimes picking up a mic and angles her body toward him. "_If you're gone, baby, you need to come home. There's a little bit of something me in everything in you."_ He's trying desperately not to smile, but she can see the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I guess it's better than Shaggy," he allows, and she laughs as she drops back against her seat.

"Is that your way of warning me not to sing along the next time they play 'It Wasn't Me'?"

"Not unless you want to find yourself discarded on the side of the road in…" He squints at the approaching sign. "Olive."

She giggles. "Not so much." She turns her focus to the landscape; they appear to have left suburbia behind the minute they took the exit ramp off the Thruway, and she watches as rural scenery slides by. It reminds her suddenly of Forks, and she realizes she hasn't told her father about her excursion with Tyler. Unearthing her cell phone from her pocket, she notes with some surprise that she has no signal. "Will our cell phones work up here?"

His eyes slide to the phone in her palm. "Nope," he replies, a mischievous grin twisting his lips. "You are entirely at my mercy."

A thrill shoots through her, and she blushes, returning her focus to the screen of her phone before holding down the power button. "I forgot to tell my dad," she says, stowing the phone in her bag.

"There's a landline at the house," he says, and she nods as she looks out the window once more, content to take in her surroundings.

Spring hasn't quite arrived, the trees still barren while clumps of dirty snow line the sides of the roads. In some places, water that evidently trickled down toward the road is frozen in miniature, icy waterfalls against rock fronts. They eventually pass a ski slope, and Bella is surprised to realize that they must be drawing near to his father's house; the trip doesn't seem to have taken the two hours he said it would.

"Do you ski?" she asks, peering through the windshield up the mountain, to where the tops of the highest slopes are visible.

"Yeah, since I was little. Do you?"

She snorts. "I don't belong on skis, and I certainly don't have any business flying down the side of a mountain."

"Why not?" She can hear the frown in his voice, and when she looks at him, his face is a picture of confusion.

She shrugs. "I'm a klutz."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm…accident-prone," she says, even as she can feel a frown pulling at her features. In Forks, in Phoenix, in her life before now, she couldn't go a week without walking into something, tripping over something, cutting herself on something. Her skin was always a tie-dye of bruises, a finger wrapped in a Band-Aid, a toe purple from having been jammed into a piece of furniture. She realizes, in this moment, that her tendency to exude remarkable clumsiness is one more thing that has apparently not followed her to New York; her body is remarkably bruise-free, and she can't recall having tripped over anything or knocked anything over since she's been here.

"No, you're not," Tyler replies simply, and she doesn't argue, ruminating silently instead. Is it possible that it's that simple? That something that seemed so definitive of her, something she'd been carrying around for as long as she can remember, can simply cease to be true? Is it possible to change that drastically, that quickly, without even noticing?

"I still…don't ski," she finishes lamely, and he chuckles.

"Well, there's a first time for everything. That said, ski season is just about over, so I won't subject you to the slopes this time."

It's a mere ten minutes before he pulls off what apparently counts as a highway in the Catskills and onto a winding road. She understands immediately why Mr. Hawkins has a four-wheel drive vehicle instead of some sedan or sports car. The road isn't paved and is rocky and steep; chunks of ice, patches of snow, and stretches of frozen mud make the car bounce as it climbs. The path winds its way through the trees before opening up, and it isn't until she's staring at a log-style cabin that she realizes that the winding, barely-navigable road was actually a driveway. On approach, the cabin itself looks small, and as Tyler pulls the vehicle to a stop in the gravel driveway, Bella realizes that beyond it is a lake. Sliding out of the car, the air is crisp and cold; Tyler grabs their bags from the cargo hold and slams the tailgate, leading her up the wooden steps to the front door. Once inside, Bella feels her breath catch.

The décor of the cabin is rustic meets luxury comfort, with a wall of windows overlooking the lake and the large back deck and a stone fireplace against the left-hand wall of the expansive living room area. A large kitchen with gleaming, state-of-the-art appliances is immediately to the right, and a small hallway leads to what appear to be a bathroom and a laundry room on the left. On the wall opposite the fireplace is a staircase leading up to a second floor, and off the kitchen is another staircase leading down to what Bella can only assume is a basement level. "Wow, Tyler. This is beautiful."

He grunts as he dumps their bags just inside the door. "Yeah. We used to come up here a lot when we were kids." He glances around the space. "I don't even know the last time my dad was up here."

"When was the last time you were up here?" she asks, and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Uh…before Michael." He unzips his coat. "Want a tour?"

She nods and follows him through the house. The staircase downstairs doesn't lead to a basement, but to a floor of more rooms: a playroom, a movie room, a gym, a few bedrooms. The upstairs holds more bedrooms plus a master suite, which overlooks the lake. He stashes their bags just inside the door and raises an eyebrow as she peeks into the master bathroom.

"Wow," comes her voice before she pulls her head back through the doorframe. "When you said your dad had a cabin, I wasn't expecting something so…"

"Ostentatious?" he supplies, and she shakes her head.

"Lavish."

He shrugs. "When my dad bought it, we were a family of five, and I think he had plans to maybe rent it out someday. But he hasn't even been back here since…" He trails off, and Bella doesn't put voice to the thought that it seems a waste to let such a beautiful home sit empty all year long. "Hungry?"

"Actually, yeah," she says, following him down the stairs and into the kitchen. He turns on lights and she situates herself at a stool at the breakfast bar, watching as he unloads a few things from the bags of groceries that had already been in the back of the car when he picked her up. She watches him move around the kitchen, and despite his claim that he hasn't been here in years, there's a familiarity in his movements, in the way he knows where everything is kept. In the city, they generally eat out: Chinese, Thai, pizza, deli sandwiches, occasionally sushi. As he puts a pot of water on the stove to boil and starts slicing a French loaf, she realizes that she's never even seen him cook. When he notices her scrutiny, he cocks an eyebrow at her as he tears open a box of pasta.

"This is really the only thing I can cook, so…you know. Don't get too excited."

She grins but stays silent, watching as he cooks the noodles and sporadically fishes a strand out and dangles it over her mouth to test the readiness. When she gives her approval, he dumps a jar of Ragu in with the drained pasta and stirs, directing her to a nearby cupboard for plates.

After dinner, they settle in by the fireplace and watch a movie from the very limited selection of VHS tapes: she immediately discards _Interview with a Vampire_ and narrows it down to _Sleepless in Seattle_ and _Forrest Gump,_ and he opts for the latter. She falls asleep sometime during Forrest's cross-country run and wakes to the feel of Tyler jostling her as he scoops her into his arms. "I can walk," she mumbles in halfhearted protest, even as she presses her nose to the soft cotton of the long-sleeved thermal shirt covering his chest. She feels his low chuckle vibrate against her face.

"I'm aware." But he doesn't put her down, depositing her instead in the soft cloud of down comforter and flannel sheets that cover the bed in the master bedroom, and she's only faintly aware of him sliding in behind her as she drifts back into sleep.

The next day he takes her into town, showing her the coffee shop where he and his family used to get hot chocolate and coffee after long days of skiing. The old woman behind the register is apparently the same one who was there back in those days, and after a few moments of watching him, she recognizes Tyler and spends a good few minutes exclaiming over how big he's gotten, how grown-up he is. Then her face dims slightly, and she tells him how sorry she was to hear about his brother; Tyler accepts her condolences with practiced, detached ease, and he pays for their coffees and cups of soup before ushering Bella out of the store. They stop in a tiny "country store," where Bella picks up a couple of postcards to send to Charlie and Renee and one to keep as a memento and a small keychain with a black bear on it before climbing back into the car and heading back to the cabin.

Dinner that night is Bella's show: marinated steaks, twice-baked potatoes, and steamed asparagus, and when Tyler finally puts his fork down and reclines in his chair, rubbing his stomach and groaning, she can't stop the warm pool of satisfaction that spreads through her. "Okay, now that I know you can cook like this, we're going to stop eating takeout all the time."

She laughs. "You're going to have to do some serious scouring of your oven and stove if you want me to cook in your apartment," she teases, and he grins and shrugs.

"We'll make Aidan do it."

She laughs, rising to clear their plates, and as she rinses them and adds them to the almost-full dishwasher, he makes them each a mug of hot cocoa and grabs a heavy blanket off the back of the sofa in the living room before leading her out onto the deck. He lowers himself into one of the white Adirondack chairs and balances his mug on the armrest, holding out his hands in expectation.

Bella stares in confusion for a beat before meeting his eye. "What?"

He gestures toward his lap. "Come on."

"No way."

Leaning back against the chair, he smirks. "Well, there's only one blanket, and you know what they say about body warmth."

Rolling her eyes but secretly pleased, she gingerly perches as close to the ends of his knees as she can without toppling to the wooden deck until he rolls his eyes and bands his arms around her waist, pulling her flush into his lap and cocooning them in the warm shell of the blanket. She shrieks as her hot chocolate nearly spills, and he laughs as he resettles, his arms still around her waist. Her nose is already cold, and she's greedy for his warmth as she tips her head back to rest against his shoulder, eyes staring up at the heavens. "Whoa," she says, gazing up at the bright stars.

"What?"

"I haven't seen stars like that since I left Forks."

She can feel the movement as Tyler tips his head back to follow her gaze. "Yeah. Too much light noise in the city."

They sip from their steaming mugs and relax. Bella lets her eyes fall closed, trying to commit the moment to her sensory memory: the ever-present warmth of Tyler's body, the heat that slides down her throat and into her stomach with every sip of cocoa, the steady thumping of his heart against her shoulder blades. A light breeze ruffles her hair, and she shivers; the wind itself isn't much, but the bite it carries is noticeable.

"And I thought the city wind was cold," she murmurs, and she can feel as much as hear his answering chuckle.

"Aren't you from the Pacific Northwest?"

"Yeah, but that's like a damp cold. This is just an icy, brutal, dry cold."

"You should feel it at the top of some of the black diamonds."

"No, thank you."

Another chuckle. "We'll see."

She turns, pressing a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw. "Thanks for bringing me here."

He turns, gazing up at her. "Thanks for coming." He tilts his head, capturing her mouth with his, and it's the first time his lips have felt anything less than hot; the cool air has chilled them, but when he opens his mouth to slide his tongue against hers, the familiar heat is there, and she angles her body slightly to deepen the kiss, her shoulder pressing into his breastbone. As the kisses escalate, his large hands bracket her hips, shifting her so that she's facing him and forcing her to straddle him on the wide seat of the Adirondack chair, her kneecaps pressing into the wooden slats beneath him. He slides his hands up and down her denim-clad thighs, exhaling into her mouth with his kisses, filling her with his warmth in the most literal sense as heat climbs her spine. Just as she leans closer and feels her hips come flush against his, he pulls back, his head dropping against the back of the seat and gazing up at her.

"Hey," he says, slightly breathless. "You know…can I just say…this wasn't, like, a sex-vacation. I didn't bring you up here to…y'know."

She fights the smile threatening to break free. "Seduce me?"

"Right. Yeah. I don't want you to think that." He looks mildly flustered, and she wonders if that's an aftereffect of the kissing or a by-product of the conversation. Either way, she finds it pretty endearing.

"And if I want that?"

His eyebrows slide up his forehead, and his eyes twinkle in the moonlight. "If you want that, then…awesome." She smiles, but says nothing, and when he can take it no longer, he throws up his hands beneath the blanket. "Okay, you're killing me. Do you want that? Or not? Because it's fine either way, but knowing one way or the other would help me out."

A giggle bubbles out of her before she can stop it. She likes his bumbling, the fact that he's uncertain sometimes…the fact that he's making the decision hers, instead of making it for her. She leans forward, pressing her lips to his. "I want that." The minute the words are past her lips, she feels like she's free falling, and it's infinitely more thrilling and only slightly less terrifying than her literal cliff-dive of a year ago.

"God," he breathes, kissing her through the words. "I want you so much. I've wanted you for ages."

The power that courses through her at his unapologetic desire, his utter lack of hesitation to put voice to the sentiment is something she's still getting used to, and a shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with the freezing temperatures outside their increasingly heated cocoon. To his credit, Tyler notices through his fog of arousal, and he pulls back slightly.

"Are you getting cold?"

"If I say no, will that prevent you from taking me inside?"

"Hell no," he murmurs, covering her mouth again and unwrapping the blanket, making a move as if to stand while still holding her.

"Whoa, tiger," she says, shimmying off his lap and retrieving her mug from the chair's armrest. "Let's not get carried away."

He mock-growls at her, rising and grabbing his own mug and the blanket, leading them inside, and dumping everything before grabbing her wrist and pulling her body flush with his, capturing her lips in a kiss. "Upstairs?" he asks, and she nods.

"Upstairs."

The lights in the master bedroom are off, but the soft glow of light from the hallway and the master bathroom give the room just enough light for everything to be visible but muted, and Bella is ridiculously grateful for the unintentional ambiance. Tyler kisses her softly, one hand at the small of her back and the other at the back of her neck, his long fingers buried in the hair at the base of her head, and she clutches the fabric of his shirt at his hips, standing on her toes to return his kisses. After a moment, he dances them a few steps backward until the backs of Bella's thighs hit the bed; he pulls her sweater and thermal shirt over her head in a single movement, dropping them both to the floor and lowering his hands to the button of her jeans. As he slides them down her legs, she steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder; she can feel the solid heat of him in the shifting muscles beneath his shirt. He lowers her to the soft bed, crawling over her and fusing their mouths together; she finds comfort in his kisses, familiarity in this ever-rising tide of the unknown, until he pulls away and peers down at her intently through the dimness.

"Okay, I've never…done this before with someone who hasn't done it before. So you have to tell me, okay? If it hurts, or…something. You have to tell me."

She's mildly reassured by his obvious nerves, and she nods. "I promise."

"And if you need me to slow down or stop or…change something…tell me, okay? Because I won't know if you don't tell me."

"Okay."

He nods, brief surge of anxiety seemingly quelled. "Okay."

He's kissing her again, reaching around her body for the clasp of her bra, and with an effortless flick of his fingers, she feels the elastic go slack around her, his deft fingers plucking it from her body with ease. Pulling back to look down at her, she can see his blue-green eyes darken in the half-light, and before this moment, she thought that was an indicator of hunger reserved for immortals. But the desire to devour her is evident in his eyes, the oh-so human flush of his cheeks, the rigid tension in every line of his very mortal body. He slides backward, standing at the edge of the bed and tugging his shirt off over his head, then shucking his jeans and his boxers in one fluid movement. Bella props herself up on her elbows, slightly stunned at the speed with which he went from fully clothed to completely bare before her, and she can't stop her eyes from finding that very male, very evident part of him. He bends over and rummages in his bag that sits beside the nightstand before straightening again, and as he does so he notices her scrutiny.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice low and deep, smirk pulling the right side of his mouth upward.

She shrugs, and his eyes drop from her face to watch her bare breasts bounce slightly with the movement; she resists the urge to cover herself with the sheet. "I've, um…never seen one before."

His eyebrows shoot upward, and the smirk vanishes. "Never?"

She shakes her head, and he looks faintly dumbstruck before he steps closer, dropping the small foil packet he'd retrieved from his bag on the edge of the bed. "Okay. Um…I guess…go nuts?" At the unintended innuendo, the smirk returns.

Despite the fact that she feels stupid, naïve, inexperienced, she can't help doing so, taking in every part of him with her eyes, fingertips itching to touch every inch of his skin, to discover if he burns everywhere with the same intensity as he does in his lips and his fingertips. As if he's read her mind, the smirk melts from his face and is replaced by a gentle affection. "Go ahead," he murmurs, and she reaches out to trace the line of pelvic muscle that draws to a "v" as it frames the trail of hair leading downward from his belly button. He sucks in an audible breath, and a small shred of her insecurity is replaced by a heady sense of control. She giggles when she realizes that his very evident arousal is moving, almost straining toward her, and he lets out a half-groan.

"Never laugh at a naked man," he mumbles, and when she peeks up at his face, she has a hard time determining where the affection gives way to lust.

"It…moves."

"Pretty well, in fact," he teases, and she blushes as she looks back down, gathering the courage to reach out and trace the length of him with that same single fingertip. She hears his soft exhale and looks up to see his head tipped back; when she traces back down, his hand comes up to grasp hers and wrap all of her fingers around him before letting go again. Looking back down, he offers her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. That was torture." But he doesn't look sorry as she begins sliding her hand over him, his eyes fluttering once before lowering to watch her movements, his hips moving slightly as he thrusts forward to meet her hand. There's a part of her that wants to do this all night, wants to touch him a million different ways and memorize every reaction he has, but there's also a part of her that's desperate for what comes next, desperate to know what it feels like to _be_ with him.

She lets go of him and leans back against the pillows again; before joining her, he reaches out and gently slides her underwear down her legs, dropping it somewhere in the tangle of blankets near the foot of the bed. As he hovers over her body, he meets her eyes once again. "Remember what I said, okay? Tell me."

"I will," she vows, touched by his complete aversion to the idea of hurting her but his concurrent unwillingness to deny her what she's asking of him.

"I'll go slow," he promises, reaching to one side of them to retrieve the condom; she watches as he unrolls it over himself, faintly sorry for the barrier between them that might rob her of some of his heat. "Ready?" he asks, lowering himself into the cradle of her hips, and she nods.

"Ready," she whispers, trying desperately not to tense up as he begins to push his way into her body. But she does, and he notices.

"Does it hurt?" he whispers, stopping all movement, and she shakes her head.

"No," she says truthfully, not wanting to admit that her reaction was more in anticipation of pain than from actually feeling any.

"Okay," he says softly, pressing a kiss to her lips and another to her temple as he pushes farther in; this time, she feels a slight twinge, and the tension returns. He doesn't pull back this time, instead simply pausing in his movements to kiss her until she relaxes again. When she does, he resumes the movement, and she feels a sudden, sharp pang and knows that he has reached and passed that symbolic place inside of her that proves that she's never been anyone else's. Despite her desire, her whole body tenses and she whimpers, trying to draw her knees together even as they're blocked by his hips.

"Sorry," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to her forehead and her nose before dropping his head to trail a line of light kisses along the line of her collarbone before rearing back to look into her face. She tries to school her features into something relaxed, but she can still feel the ache as her body tries to adjust to his presence inside her.

"Is it bad?" he whispers, hips still, and she swallows once, trying to breathe normally even as her heart hammers in her chest.

"No," she says after a moment, and even in the half-light, he looks doubtful. "Not bad," she promises. "Just…um…different."

"What does it feel like?" he asks, voice soft, and she's so surprised by the question that she momentarily forgets the ache at the very heart of her that is dulling by degrees.

"What?"

He looks faintly embarrassed. "Sorry. That was stupid. I just…I wondered…"

"It feels…" She doesn't have any explanation for the anatomy of it, so she tells him the only truth that she has in this moment, the one that is screaming along every vein in her body and ballooning in her heart and mind with such enormity that she can't feel anything else. "It feels like I'm yours."

"You are mine," he whispers, dipping his head to kiss her mouth, and she welcomes the familiar reassurance of his lips, his tongue, the increasingly familiar drumbeat of his heart behind his sternum. And, in keeping with past discoveries, she feels like she's on fire. "Tell me when," he says when they part, and she gives him a small nod.

"When."

As he slides back out, she feels mild relief, and when he pushes into her again, she feels wholly consumed.

"Okay?" he asks, and she nods.

"Yeah." She smiles, bigger this time. "It's good."

His face slackens in relief, the concern melting from the creases in his forehead, and he sighs. "God, Bella, you feel amazing. I didn't want to tell you when you were in pain, but…fuck, you feel incredible. You're so…" He trails off, looking down between them to watch as he pushes and retreats.

"What?" she breathes, needing his words nearly as much as his body, and he looks back up to meet her eye.

"Everything. You're so everything." He slides in and out of her, and she's amazed at the speed with which her body acclimates to this new sensation, its readiness to accept Tyler's intrusion. She wonders if everyone's first time works the same way, or if the truth in her heart is what makes it easier for her body to surrender, the emotional knowledge that she's his paving the way for her body to follow suit.

She can hear his breathing grow harsher in the quiet room, and she registers the increase in the pace of his hips. "Do you think I can get you there?" he pants, and it takes her a moment to realize what he's asking; until that moment, the idea of having an orgasm was, frankly, the furthest thing from her mind.

"Um, I don't think so," she admits, feeling faintly ashamed, but not at all disappointed; the ecstasy of simply having him inside her, the emotional high of giving herself to him, far outweighs the momentary euphoria of a physical release. This moment, this feeling…it's more about her heart than her body, but as she registers the faint trembling of his muscles, the heat of him between her legs, she knows that it's a feeling she can't adequately explain to him in this moment. He slows his pace, looking vaguely perturbed, but she smiles and reaches up to cup his jaw. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," he says, and she shakes her head once, fiercely.

"Don't. This is perfect. I don't need more. I just need this." Desperate to erase the doubt on his face, she lifts her head from the pillow, wrapping her legs around his waist and finding his ear with her lips. "I want to feel _you_ let go."

"Shit," he mutters, and as if she's fired a starting gun, he starts moving again, his hips pushing and pulling, the length of him sliding in and out with renewed fervor. "Is this okay?"

"So good," she mumbles, surprised by the fact that, despite her denial and the barely-there ache still lingering in her body, she can feel faint traces of the pleasure that she intends to chase next time.

"Bella," he gasps, and she peers up into his face, cataloging details: his desperate blue-green eyes, his flushed cheeks, the sweat dotting the skin near his hairline, the damp hair at his temples.

_Tyler_.

Her boyfriend.

Her _lover._

"Tyler," she murmurs, and she feels the mattress beside her head bounce as he slams his palm into it then slides it to her head, clutching her hair in his fist. His other hand grips her bare hip as his hips push into her once more, roughly, and then still, his mouth falling open and his eyes going slightly glazed as he stares down at her. She arches up slightly, feeling the faint pulse of his flesh inside her body as his pleasure overtakes him, a low groan falling from his half-open mouth as he comes, his hips pinning her to the bed as he spills into the condom. He shudders and drops his head to her shoulder as his hips tremble against her slightly, almost imperceptibly, as his body drains itself of the last of his release. Almost immediately, he pulls back, kissing her mouth softly, almost reverently.

"I love you," he murmurs against her lips. "Jesus, Bella, I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispers, returning his kisses, wrapping her arms around his neck and keeping her legs wrapped around his waist. They kiss, gentle and languid, feeling him soften inside her as their heartbeats gradually slow in their chests, until he pulls back and smiles down at her regretfully.

"I have to…go."

She frowns, a mildly familiar and entirely unwelcome unease rising in her throat. "What? Go where?"

He glances down between them. "The condom. I have to pull out and get rid of it."

"Oh," she says softly, relieved and yet sad to have to let him go at all. "Okay." She unlocks her legs from around him, surprised at how jelly-like they feel as she lowers them to the mattress.

He smiles softly as he slides out of her body. "What did you think I meant? That I was going to ditch you here, now that I've had my way with you?" She shakes her head but can't quite meet his eye, and he tilts her chin with the knuckle of his index finger. "Hey."

"Nothing. Stupid."

A frown replaces the briefly sated look he'd been wearing as he looks down at her. "You did, didn't you? You actually thought I meant something like that."

"Not really," she says softly, honestly. "Just…a knee-jerk reaction."

The frown deepens, and he glances down between them quickly before looking back up. "Okay, we're talking about this. Just give me a second." He disappears from the bed, and Bella pulls the sheet up and around her body, silently cursing her unthinking reaction to his words as she hears muffled, unfamiliar sounds coming from the bathroom. Then he reappears, flicking the bathroom light off and returning to the bed, sliding between the sheets and rolling toward her, running a gentle palm over her arm. "Okay. Talk to me."

"It's nothing," she says. "Please. I don't want to spoil this."

"You won't. I just want to know. Brief explanation, then we can move on." She doesn't reply, and he shifts his body so that his torso is hovering over hers, his elbows pinned to the mattress on either side of her, effectively caging her in. "It's the ex, isn't it?"

She looks down at the hem of the sheet, still clutched in her fingers, shame and embarrassment coursing through her in equal measure. What the hell is she doing, thinking of Edward at this, of all moments? "Hey." Tyler's voice is gentle. "Come on. The longer you stay silent, the more paranoid I'm getting."

Looking up, guilt joins the shame and humiliation: the last thing she wants to do is taint this moment with any insecurity on his part. "Sort of. I mean…not in a concrete way. Just…that was pretty much what he said when he left me. That he had to go. It's a stupid word association to have, and I honestly didn't really realize I had it until right now." A self-deprecating laugh slips past her lips. "Great timing, huh?" She reaches up a hand to cover her face, but he wraps his fingers gently around her wrist.

"It's okay, Bella."

"I messed this up."

"You did not."

"We're talking about my _ex_. In _bed._ That's not messed up?"

"No," he says, then gives her a small smile. "I mean, it's not _ideal_, no, but…" He smoothes her hair back from her forehead. "I promised you I would never hurt you like he did, and I won't. Bella, I will never leave you until you want me to go. You're pretty much stuck with me." He grins. "And I'm _certainly_ not leaving you after mind-bogglingly good sex, either."

At that, she laughs, a beautiful, unexpected laugh that seems to chase all ghosts from the room. "Mind-bogglingly good? Really?"

"Really." He's suddenly serious. "It's never been like that for me. Ever." He presses a soft kiss to her mouth. "I'm just sorry it wasn't good for you."

"It _was_ good for me," she assures him, wrapping her arms around his neck and wanting to leave them there forever. "It was perfect for me. I promise. It was…" She trails off, feeling shy and simultaneously feeling stupid for feeling shy when she's lying naked beneath him.

"What?" he presses, and she's glad he can't see her blushing.

"It was exactly what I'd always hoped my first time would be like. Exactly."

He looks doubtful, if flattered. "Really? Even though you didn't…"

"I doubt most girls do the first time," she says. "Besides…we have time, right? To remedy that?"

He grins, the familiar smirk chasing the uncertainty from his face. "We have all the time in the world," he murmurs, covering her mouth with his.

When she awakens just before dawn, blinking into the darkness with the muddled disorientation of a newborn, she is aware of every single inch of her skin. Never in her life has she slept naked, and it's as if she's sensitive to every fiber of fabric against her flesh, every place where she's pressed against Tyler. His skin is like warm silk against her shoulder blades, her spine, the backs of her thighs; she can feel the most intimate part of him, soft with sleep, resting against her tailbone, and warm puffs of breath dance over the curve of her shoulder and neck.

As she peers into the dark room, basking in the feel of him sleeping behind her and the feeling of being wholly possessed, she realizes the truth of her own earlier words: she's his now.

Everything else is just memory.

* * *

March melts into April, the bitter winds in the city dying down as the parks burst to life under the bright spring sunlight, and Bella continues to flourish under the warm glow of Tyler's love. Her dorm room becomes little more than a study space, and with the exception of nights she has ridiculous amounts of schoolwork or has made plans with Kelsey, her free waking and sleeping moments are spent in Tyler's apartment. A few of her own paperbacks become intermingled with his on his so-called bedside table, a red toothbrush joins the blue and green ones in the bathroom, and the boys' refrigerator begins to look less like a science experiment and more like a storage space for actual, edible food.

When Tyler returns home from work one afternoon mid-month to find her reading atop his bed, he's scowling, and for the first time, she feels insecure about her presence in his apartment, her tendency to hang out when he's not around. For the first time, she wonders if she should give him space.

"Everything okay?" she asks warily, watching as he dumps his backpack in a corner and shrugs out of his light jacket, kicking his shoes off and flopping down on the bed to stare at the ceiling.

"Yeah." She sits up, folding her legs beneath her and angling her body toward him. "My father wants to meet you."

She frowns; the difference between this and when his mother had wanted to meet her isn't lost on her, and she's uncertain as to whether the difference has to do with her or with his by all accounts tempestuous relationship with his father. "Okay," she says carefully, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of her sleeve.

"God, he's such an asshole."

"Why?"

"Because it has to be on his terms."

She frowns. "What does that mean?"

He scrubs a hand over his face and blows out a frustrated breath. "Nothing. Don't worry about it." Rolling to one side, he finally meets her gaze. "I'm supposed to ask you a good day for you to 'do lunch'."

Running over her class schedule in her mind, she shrugs. "I'm done with classes at 11 on Wednesday and Friday," she offers, and he nods.

"I'll let him know." He's still reclined on one side, gazing up at her, and she watches him for a moment before returning to the sleeve of her shirt.

"Do you…not want me to meet your dad?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and the mild insecurity that had started festering within her at his uncharacteristically grouchy entrance grows. "It's not that," he says carefully, and she tries to picture the enigmatic Mr. Hawkins, the rich, workaholic, absentee father.

"I'll try not to embarrass you," she says softly, and before she can look up at him to gauge his reaction, she finds herself pinned to the mattress, blue-green eyes blazing.

"Don't ever say stupid shit like that to me again," he very nearly growls, eyes boring into her.

She wants to look away, but he's so close, so all-possessing, that she can't. "Sorry," she whispers, and he visibly softens, even though he doesn't let her go.

The flash of anger vanishes from his eyes, and he almost looks sad. "I don't…I'm more worried that _he'll_ embarrass me," he says after a moment, and when he finally breaks her gaze, he looks ashamed.

"What?"

"My father…doesn't exactly have the highest opinion of me," he admits, staring at her shoulder.

Reaching a hand up between them, she gently cups his jaw. "Then he really doesn't see you," she whispers, and he drags his eyes back to hers, gazing down at her intently.

"I love you," he breathes, and she feels all lingering traces of doubt and insecurity float away like dandelion fronds on a spring breeze.

"I love you, too," she whispers, and he lowers his mouth to hers.

* * *

"Did I mention that you look beautiful?" he murmurs, gazing down at the floral-print sundress that she'd found at Urban Outfitters when she told Kelsey where she was going.

"You did," she replies, then lowers her voice to a whisper in deference to the cluster of people around them. "But it's something a girl never tires of hearing. And also, you look pretty great yourself."

Indeed, he cuts a sharp line in his suit, but the way he keeps tugging gently on the cuff of his sleeve to align it with his suit coat betrays his anxiety, or perhaps his discomfort, and she tries not to let that knowledge take away from the first time she's seeing him dressed up. She wonders if the wardrobe was selected to meet the expectations of his father or a restaurant dress code, but she doesn't want to add to his evident unease by asking. He half-rolls his eyes at the compliment, and she bites down on a smile.

As the express elevator shoots heavenward, Bella feels her ears pop, and the somersault of her stomach makes her faintly nauseous. It is her first time inside the buildings that she has spent the past eight months using as the landmark of the southernmost tip of the island. On more than one occasion, their looming presence on the horizon has helped her find her bearings, twin silver beacons of familiarity when she was turned around on a side street or at an unfamiliar junction.

Tyler's hand is reassuring in hers, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing circles in her palm as the glowing red numbers on the small screen above the doors detail their climb into the sky. "If we were going to my father's office," he murmurs in her ear, "we would have had to take an elevator to the 78th floor sky lobby and then get on a local elevator to the 92nd floor." She smiles up at him, amused by his effort to play tour guide.

"Like the subway," she muses, and he beams down at her.

"Like the subway," he echoes, and with their fingers still entwined, pulls her arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

A few moments later, the elevator doors slide open, spitting them from the darkness of the elevator car into the barely brighter elevator lobby, a mural of painted clouds hidden behind a layer of hanging glass beads – clearly intended to be an abstract preview of the view that would await them on a sunnier day.

As they approach the dining room, the deep green carpet beneath their feet reminds Bella of Forks, even if nothing else about the space does so; she feels as though she is standing in a lush field of grass instead of 1,300 feet in the sky. The carpet is the exception, however; the remainder of the dining room décor is done in neutral, understated hues, the view itself the obvious focus and the most beautiful art. The only other instantly notable feature of the room is the ceiling: parts of it appear to be folded back on itself like origami, as if diners are expected to look upward, even higher, instead of out at how high they are already.

The frame of the building that is evident from the outside is clear on the inside, too; the windows are long rectangles, evenly spaced by vertical beams that are formidably thick, hinting that they are the skeleton holding the building up. Bella and Tyler are shown to a dining table near a window, and Bella can't fight the smile that comes as Tyler pulls her chair out for her. "You can take the boy off of Park Avenue," she wants to say, but in all the times Tyler has spoken about where he comes from, she's never gotten the impression that such a joke would be welcome. Instead, she lowers herself into the seat with a soft "Thank you," and Tyler rounds the table and takes his own seat, scooting it ever-so-slightly closer to hers. Almost immediately, a dark-haired, olive-complexioned man appears beside the table with a jug of water.

"Hey, Manny," Tyler greets, gazing up at him, and the man beams.

"Mister Hawkins," he returns, handing them each a menu. "Meeting the other Mr. Hawkins?"

Tyler nods. "That we are. He's late. As usual." But there's no malice in his tone; it's carefully neutral, and Bella thinks she might even detect the faintest thread of affection beneath the words. She wonders if he even realizes it. "Manny, this is my girlfriend, Bella Swan. Bella, this is Manny – best waiter in the place."

Manny beams, picking up the white linen napkin near Bella's elbow and unfurling it with a practiced flick of his wrist, settling it perfectly into her lap. "Thank you," she says, and he nods.

"This is her first time in the tower," Tyler continues.

"Ah, well, welcome," Manny says. "And very well done, Mister Hawkins, bringing her all the way to the top." He winks at Bella. "The boy may look like the help, but he's got the blood of the brass."

Bella attempts to bite back a smile and gives Tyler a look, pleased to see him looking slightly embarrassed and running an uncharacteristically self-conscious hand through his messy hair. "Thanks a lot, Manny."

"It's too bad the weather isn't better for you, sir," the server continues, gathering the spare cutlery and water glass from the fourth place at the table. "Not the best view today, I'm afraid." Used to gray skies and misty rain, Bella doesn't voice her opinion: that despite the weather, the view is still the best one she's ever seen. "You should bring this lovely young lady up here on a day with infinite visibility."

"Infinite visibility?" Bella repeats, and Manny nods as he lights the small candle in the center of the table.

"My brother, he is a pilot," he explains. "They call these days 'severe clear' – means you feel like you could see forever. 'Infinite visibility.' That is the day to come back."

"We'll do that," Tyler agrees, giving Bella a small smile.

"May I get you fine young folks a few drinks while you're waiting?"

Tyler looks expectantly at Bella, who waves toward her water glass. "I'm good with water, thank you."

"Me too, Manny."

"Very good, sir. I'll come back when your father arrives." He disappears after placing a couple of menus on the table, and Bella takes the opportunity to stare out at the breathtaking view. Despite the weather conditions, she can pick out the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges spanning the East River, and the expansive maze of buildings beneath them.

"I remember the first time my father brought us up here," Tyler says, watching Bella gaze out at the city sprawling beneath them like a miniature urban model. "Caroline was just a baby; it was Michael's eighteenth birthday, and I was twelve. We were standing right up against the window with our noses pressed to the glass, and my mother was all nervous, like we were going to fall or something." He laughs lightly, shaking his head. "Michael was actually a little scared; we'd never been so high up before. But I was just staring out, watching everything…I said this must be what birds felt like, so high above everything else. He said he'd never want to be a bird. I asked him why, and he said it just seemed so lonely, floating around that high above everything, with just the wind and the sun and the breeze for company." He shrugs. "I said I just thought it would be cool to fly." A laugh. "I was twelve. Not exactly big on existential thinking."

"And now?"

"Even now, I don't think it would be so bad."

She agrees with him, staring out at the grid of the city below, and her mind jumps back to her childhood, and a bird's eye view of burnt earth. "When I was thirteen, my mom and I lived in a small town in Nevada for a while. There was an old water tower, and it had a sort of platform all around the edge of it. I used to climb it."

"A water tower, huh?"

A faint flush of embarrassment spreads through her. "Yeah, I know. But we weren't exactly surrounded by skyscrapers, so it was the best I could do."

Tyler covers her hand with his atop the white linen tablecloth. "Keep going."

"It was nothing like this," she says softly, looking out the window once again. "You could only see so far because of the cliffs, and everywhere was just…I don't know. Sort of barren-looking. The city…it seems so much more alive."

A small, affectionate smile is pulling at his mouth, and he gazes at her for a beat before following her eyes out to the metropolis below. "Yeah. Alive. That's a good word for it."

She pulls her focus back to his face. "I sound like a country bumpkin, I know."

"No, you don't."

"I just…I feel invincible here."

"You didn't feel that way in Washington?"

She thinks about New York, and all of the dangers her father had spent the summer months after her high school graduation warning her about: muggers, kidnappers, pickpockets, rapists. Then she thinks about her short time in Forks, and all of the dangers that small-town living had brought across her path: vampires, werewolves, an immortal boy with the power to very nearly break her. "No," she says softly, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "I didn't feel that way in Washington."

His hand tightens over hers, and he's just opening his mouth to say something more when the vacant chair beside them scrapes backward, and a tall figure looms over the table. Bella looks up and is immediately struck by the appearance of the man who can only be Tyler's father: powerful, imposing, distinguished-looking. Handsome.

"This must be Bella," he says, a warm smile pulling the corners of his eyes into crinkles, and she can see Tyler in his blue-green eyes, his square jaw, his broad frame. She makes a move to stand, but he stills her by raising a hand and then holding it out to her. "It's lovely to meet you, at last," he says, shaking her hand before releasing it to unbutton the jacket of his gray pinstripe suit. "Charles Hawkins."

"It's nice to meet you, too," she replies, and he smiles before turning and nodding toward his son.

"Tyler."

"Dad," he returns, and Bella eyes him, noting the wariness in his eyes, the way he has leaned back in his chair since his father's arrival, letting go of her hand and squaring his shoulders as if preparing for a blow.

Manny reappears beside the table. "Mr. Hawkins," he greets, offering the older man a menu. "Can I bring you a Perrier, sir?"

"Please. Thank you, Manny."

"Of course, sir. Anything else for you young folks?" Tyler and Bella shake their heads, and he disappears once again.

"So," Charles says, smoothing his tie against his white shirt and leaning back in his chair; Bella doesn't miss the fact that his posture is nearly identical to his son's. "Did you enjoy the Catskills?"

She peeks at Tyler, but he's looking at her, and she realized that the question was directed at her. "Very much," she says, regretting the oddly formal tone of her response and hurrying to elaborate. "It was so beautiful. Thank you so much for letting us go. The cabin is gorgeous."

He smiles, a small, indulgent smile. "Yes, well, it's been some time since I've been back." Now, his eyes slide to Tyler. "The caretakers are keeping it up, I assume?"

Tyler nods. "Everything was perfect."

Bella has been in the man's presence for a matter of minutes, but she can't imagine that anyone he hires to do something would dare to do anything less than a perfect job. He is, in a word, commanding, his dark hair threaded through with gray and his eyes piercing, and even if Tyler hadn't painted the picture he has, she would already find Charles Hawkins daunting. She wonders fleetingly if Tyler realizes he possesses the same gift, but that he chooses to execute it with a disarming brand of charm rather than a businesslike brand of intimidation.

Manny reappears with Charles's water, and once the trio has ordered entrees, conversation turns to the get-to-know-you: Bella tells Charles about her father and Forks, glossing over the more transient time of her childhood with Renee. He asks about NYU, inquiring as to what she intends to study.

"Right now, I'm working primarily on my core requirements," she replies, "but I'm considering focusing on something with literature."

"Ah," he says, the most noncommittal of responses, and almost immediately she realizes her misstep: a man who makes a living in a presumably financial field likely has little patience or appreciation for the literary arts.

"The last book my father read was probably _The Bonfire of the Vanities_," Tyler offers, glancing at his father with a look that seems to Bella to be equal parts teasing and challenging.

Charles reclines slightly in his chair and considers his son for a moment, lips pursed, before raising an eyebrow. "Not true. I read _Tuesdays with Morrie_ last year because Janine kept going on and on about it." He shrugs. "Sentimental, if you ask me, but enjoyable all the same."

Tyler's considering his father, and his revelation, and Bella feels as though the tension at the table is more intimidating than the fact that they're 107 stories in the air. Finally, he chuckles, pursing his lips into the smirk that she has come to learn he wears like a mask. "Sentimental." He nods. "Maybe. But we still can't keep them on the shelf at the store."

"Ah, yes, the bohemian bodega of books," his father says, eyes twinkling with mirth. "And how is that career path going?"

"Terrific," Tyler says, a note of warning in his voice. "Terrific for now. Not forever."

Charles nods, evidently conceding the point – at least for the moment – and returning his focus to Bella. "And you enjoy reading as well, I take it?"

More than willing to be used as a pawn to deflect the tension, Bella launches into a conversation about the semester's reading list, which then devolves into a critique of movies made from books, and she's relieved to see Tyler laughing and joining in on more than one occasion, and – at least in a couple of instances – actually agreeing with his father's assessment of things. She suspects that, if they didn't have the evidently fraught shared history of which she still doesn't really understand the details, Tyler and Charles might actually get along just fine.

By the time the meal is done and Charles has fielded two cell phone calls and assured whoever was on the second that he'd be back in the office in ten minutes, they rise from the table, Charles taking Bella's hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it that makes her feel somewhat like she's in a movie. _Pretty Woman_ springs immediately to mind. "Bella, it was truly a pleasure to meet you. I can see why my son is so captivated." She blushes and glances at Tyler, who is once again rolling his eyes.

"It was very nice to meet you, too. Thank you so much for lunch." He waves his hand in dismissal.

"We'll do it again," he says, and it isn't a question. "Son." He nods in farewell, re-buttoning his suit jacket as he walks away, and Bella watches him go for a moment, marveling at the fact that Charles Hawkins is exactly the type of man she'd imagine having an office in one of the most overwhelming, high-profile buildings in the world. Realizing Tyler is still sitting, she lowers herself back into her chair just as he exhales heavily and very nearly falls back against the padded backrest of his chair.

"So that's Daddy," he drawls, reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie, unknowingly satisfying Bella's curiosity as to the driving factor behind his wardrobe choices.

"He seemed nice," she says carefully, and he sighs again, eyeing her thoughtfully.

"He's getting better," he allows, eyes flicking toward the direction in which his father had retreated. "I wouldn't say we've reached 'nice' just yet, but he's getting to be less of an asshole, which is progress."

Manny reappears at the table. "Your father said to bring you whatever dessert you would like," he says, but Tyler shakes his head before glancing at Bella.

"Unless you want something," he says quickly, but she can see the exhaustion in his posture, read his desire to get out of his father's space and back onto more comfortable turf.

"No, thanks. I'm stuffed."

"We're good, thanks, Manny," Tyler says, balling up his napkin and rising as Manny nods and pulls Bella's chair back as she stands.

"It was lovely to meet you, Miss Swan. You keep the young Mister Hawkins out of trouble, yes?"

"I'll do my best," she says, noting Tyler's grin, and she wonders fleetingly when Charles last saw this easygoing, quick-to-smile Tyler.

"And remember," Manny says to Tyler, pointing out the window. "Infinite visibility. Bring her back on a blue-sky day."

Tyler nods. "You bet. Thanks, Manny. Say hi to Pita."  
"Of course," the server says, beaming. "Have a nice day."

As they ride the elevator back down to the tower lobby, she can feel Tyler relaxing beside her, his shoulders dropping as his grip on her hand loosens, and when the doors slide open to spill them into the gleaming lobby, she can't resist teasing him. "You're more alike than you think, you know."

The shriek that tears from her mouth when he grabs her around the waist and spins her echoes in the cavernous space. "Take it back."

"Make me."

He smirks. "Oh, Bella. I intend to take you home and do just that."


	8. Chapter 7

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M.

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA, who is awesome and brilliant and not at all fazed by flying spiders. I'm telling you, she's like a superhero.

_**A/N:**__ I just want to thank all of you who are still with me for your lovely reviews and amazing feedback. I don't reply, but I read and treasure them all. For reading, and for taking the time to respond, I truly can't thank you enough. xo_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Don't go," he murmurs into the back of her neck, warm breath dancing down her spine and lifting goose bumps on her skin as it goes.

"I don't want to," she admits, eyes closed, basking in the feel of naked skin pressed to naked skin and the buzz of post-orgasm endorphins still humming through her blood. His room is the closest to dark it gets, light noise from the city slipping in through the makeshift curtains, and she can see the skeleton of the fire escape beyond his windowpanes. It reminds her of the trees outside her bedroom at home, and the way she would watch the branches dance, silhouetted by moonlight. If there is something she misses about Forks besides her father, it's the silver-white light of moonlight.

"I'll make it worth your while," he hums, pressing lingering kisses to the curve of her shoulder, and she sighs.

"I have no doubt about that," she replies, stilling his hand as it begins creeping up her stomach toward her bare breasts. "But I really do have to go." She turns her face slightly, inhaling the scent of him on his plaid pillowcase. As much as she enjoyed the luxury of high thread-count sheets and down bedding at his father's cabin, there's something familiar, something so very Tyler about his mismatched sheets that she finds she actually prefers.

He sighs, wriggling his hand free and opting instead to head south, fingertips dancing over the xylophone of her rib cage, the swell of her hip, the tiny dip of her belly button. "Stay," he pleads again, and she traps his wandering fingers.

"If I flunk out of college after my freshman year, my summer in Forks will turn into the rest of my life in Forks and probable enrollment in the nearby community college."

Suddenly, she can see Tyler's profile rising over her shoulder, and when she turns her head to meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed. The wandering hands, she's slightly disappointed to note, are still. "You're not staying in the city for the summer?"

Matching his frown, she shakes her head. "I have to go home for the summer."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just…that's what college students do. They go home for the summer."

"But you don't _have_ to."

"Kelsey and I have to be out of the dorms when our exams are over."

He shrugs. "Stay with me."

"What?"

"You're here practically all the time, anyway. Why not? Aidan won't care."

Bella tries to imagine telling Charlie that she's shacking up with her boyfriend for the summer; she finds it easier to imagine telling him that her previous boyfriend was a vampire. "My dad would never let me stay all summer," she says, feeling suddenly young and immature. "Besides…I think he misses me."

"I'll miss you if you go," he replies, shifting his body so that he's looming over her, his lower half pressing her into the mattress.

"I'll miss you, too," she says, feeling the heavy weight of the words settle on her chest as if he's lowered the rest of his body atop hers. "But I'll be back mid-August. And you can always come to Forks."

He cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head, one clump of hair falling slightly over his forehead. "I don't have the best track record with cop fathers," he muses, but dips his head to press a soft kiss to her cheekbone. "But I'm willing to give it a whirl." He pulls back, mouth hinting at a soft smile. "I meant it when I said I wanted to meet him."

"You can meet my friend Jake, too."

Suddenly, both eyebrows disappear up his forehead. "Jake?"

She lets a teasing smile cross her face. "Have I not mentioned Jake?"

"You most certainly have _not_," he grouses, pressing his hips into hers.

"Jake's my best friend in Forks. We were friends as kids, and our dads are best friends."

Another hip-press. "And this Jake character," Tyler says, the way he faintly sneers the name reminding her, ever so briefly, of Edward. "He's only ever been a friend?"

All traces of teasing vanish from her face, and her eyes grow serious. "He's always been a friend. Jake was the one who saved me when my heart broke."

Tyler's movements halt, and he peers down at her, regret and capitulation in his eyes. "Sounds like a good friend," he says in lieu of apology.

"He is. You'd like him." She doesn't know if this is entirely accurate, and she doesn't know if Jake would like Tyler either, but she does know that he'll at least be less overtly hostile toward Tyler than he was to her former boyfriend.

"I'll meet him, too," he murmurs, resuming the gentle rocking of his hips. "But for now, how about we stop talking about the other men in your life?"

Bella laughs, and as she tips her head back, she feels Tyler's warm lips at the hollow of her throat. "I _really_ have to go," she says in halfhearted protest. "I have finals to study for, and I have three papers to write."

"Did you know that physical exertion actually leads to enhanced brain function?" he murmurs into her skin, sliding his knees apart and taking her thighs with them.

"I did not," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Allow me to demonstrate," he whispers, and she laughs again in surrender.

* * *

"Ready for your exams?"

Bella nods as she gazes to where her bare feet are propped on her desk, purple-painted toenails stark against her pale skin. "I think so," she replies aloud. "I have one more paper to write, but I think I'm ready."

"Good," Charlie says through the earpiece of her cell phone. "That's real good." She hears him clear his throat. "I'm real proud of you, Bella."

Warmth suffuses her at the uncharacteristic praise, and she picks up a pen from her desk and twirls it between her fingers. "Thanks, Dad."

"You book your flight home yet?"

"Um, no," she says, dropping the pen and cursing below her breath as she attempts to bend and pick it up without lowering her feet from the desk. "Not yet."

"Don't wanna wait too long," he says. "Better deals if you book it early."

"Yeah. I was just…I was trying to figure out when I'm flying back."

"Finals are done next week, right?"

"Right. But I, um…I was hoping to maybe stay a little bit longer after they're over. Just to…hang out in the city a bit before I come home."

"Mm-hmm. This have anything to do with that boy?"

Her first instinct is to lie, but she learned at a young age that having a cop for a father makes intentional deceit a bad – not to mention futile – idea. "Maybe. But also just to…relax. Dad, I've been working really hard in my classes, I swear. And I'd just like to hang out with my friends a little bit, since I'm not going to see them all summer."

"Mm-hmm." There's a pause before he speaks again. "Don't you have to be out of there by the end of next week?"

"Um. Yes?"

"And you'll be staying where, when you leave your building?" She doesn't say anything, and she can hear the sudden gust of air as he blows out a breath on the other side of the country. "Bells, I know you're not technically living under my roof anymore. But I'm still your dad."

"I know."

There's a long silence, the only sound the faint buzz of the line, and she's about to cave when she hears him sigh. "I realize you've been living on your own for nine months now, and I haven't been in on anything you're doing, but I'm not sure I like the idea of you living with some kid I don't know."

"Dad, he's not just some kid you don't know." She doesn't elaborate, but hopes that he's able to hear what she doesn't say in the spaces between her words.

"What's his full name?"

"What?"

"Full. Name. I want to run a background check on this kid."

"Um. Okay. It's Tyler Hawkins. But, Dad? He, uh…he has an arrest record. It was a misunderstanding outside a bar before I even knew him, and the arresting officer was his ex-girlfriend's father. But he's a good person."

"Arrest record or conviction record?"

"What?"

"If he was arrested but released, it wouldn't have shown up in my search."

"Oh." _Damn it._ "There weren't any charges filed."

"Hmm."

"Please, Dad? This is important. And Mom's coming to visit this weekend and she'll get to meet him, so you can even ask her."

"Bells, I think we both know that your mother's judgment isn't exactly the most reassuring." Another heaving sigh, and she bites back a smile. "All right. But I wasn't kidding about the background check. And I want his address, phone number, social security number, and the names of both of his parents. And maybe his blood type. And medical records."

This time, she laughs out loud. "Thanks, Dad." She spins the pen between her knuckles. "I love you."

"I love you too, Bells."

When she hangs up, she feels a heady dose of exhilaration and pride sweep through her. Charlie has always treated her as independent, as self-sufficient, but having him treat her like an actual _adult_ makes her feel independent and self-sufficient in a whole new way. Added to which, his unspoken approval of her relationship with Tyler makes her feel stable and comfortable in a way she never did with Edward.

The following days are a whirlwind of last-minute cramming, all-night studying, and writing, re-writing, and proofreading. Food breaks are as brief as possible, and the only prolonged breaks Bella takes from studying are to actually sit for final exams. By Thursday, she feels as though she's a zombie, sleepwalking through her days while her brain overflows and spins with facts and theories and all manner of academic material. Having turned in her final paper and with only one exam left to take, she tries to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel. When a knock comes at her door at 10:30 on Thursday night, she peels herself away from her textbook and pads across her floor, the flannel of her worn pajama pants dragging across the patterned area rug. She opens it to find Tyler on the other side, clutching a small blue Anthora cup in one hand and an enormous Starbucks one in the other.

"Caffeine," he says, holding up the first cup, "or sugar? I wasn't sure, so I brought both."

She tilts her head to one side, resting her temple against the doorjamb. "What kind of sugar?"

"White chocolate mocha."

"Ooh," she breathes, plucking the larger cup from his hand. "Thanks." She makes a move to shut the door on him, and his sneakered foot appears in the doorjamb.

"Hey!"

"What?" she asks, lifting the cup to her lips to take a small sip, eyebrow arched behind the white plastic lid.

"This isn't just a delivery," he says in mock indignation. "This is an interruption."

"Hmm. I don't know if I can afford an interruption at this particular point in time."

"Too bad," he says, pushing the door open with his now-free hand. "I'm interrupting."

She knows her smile is contradicting her verbal protests, but she soldiers on anyway. "And if I was studying?"

"Stop studying. You've been studying forever. You know this stuff." He steps into her personal space and slides the hand not holding the coffee around her waist. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," she replies, letting her head fall forward and pressing her forehead to the warm skin of his sternum. His plain gray t-shirt smells faintly musty, the telltale aroma of old books. "Did you just get off work?"

"Yeah," he replies, his voice rumbling against her head.

"Want to stay?"

"Really? Where's Kelsey?"

"Out. She'll be back, but I honestly don't have the energy to do anything besides sleep, so if you're looking for action, you're in the wrong room."

He laughs, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm just looking for you."

"You found me," she says, pulling back to take a small sip of her drink. When she looks up at him, he's gazing at her with soft eyes.

"I did. And thank God for that."

"Besides, this is probably the last night visit for a few days. My mother's coming tomorrow."

"Really?"

Bella nods, crossing the room to flop down on her unmade bed, and Tyler follows, kicking off his shoes and lowering himself beside her, his back pressed against her white wall. "Phil's moving up to Triple-A, and he'll be playing for the Columbus…something-or-others."

He laughs. "The Clippers. Not the something-or-others."

She yawns through a shrug. "Okay. Clippers." Just as she's lifting her cup again, she frowns. "How did you know that?"

"It's the minor league affiliate for the Yankees," he replies, opening the small tab on his coffee cup and taking a sip.

"You like the Yankees?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. My father instilled his own loyalties in me at a young age, and they're hard to shake."

"Hm."

"Who do you like?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't really like baseball. I mean, I guess Charlie likes the Mariners, but I'm not much of a sports person."

He tips his head back against the wall, and she takes an odd sense of pleasure out of watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and talks. "That's because you haven't been to Yankee Stadium."

"You have?" She doesn't know why she's surprised, really; he's lived in New York his whole life, and having met Charles Hawkins, she suspects that, as children, his kids wanted for nothing. A day at the ballpark seems like pretty small potatoes in that world.

"My father has season tickets," he replies, confirming her suspicion. "Not that he ever uses them for any other reason than to impress people."

"Wow."

"So…your mom's coming."

"Yep. Tomorrow, after my final. She and Phil are going house-hunting, and in Renee's world, Greenwich Village is en route from Florida to Ohio."

"Do I get to meet her?"

She tries to keep her surprise from showing on her face. "You _want_ to meet her?"

He fiddles with the lid of his cup. "Your father carries a firearm and is capable of accessing every single detail of my life, and your mother is apparently a hippie who spent your formative years road-tripping with you around the country. If you were in my shoes, which of these two would intimidate you more?"

Bella laughs. "Okay. But my father has absolutely no interest in my romantic life, and the first questions out of my mother's mouth the minute she hears about you are going to be, 'Are you sleeping with him? How is he in bed?' So you tell me."

Tyler's blue-green eyes are wide. "You're kidding."

"Nope." She can't deny that she's enjoying his obvious disbelief. "When most kids get the safe-sex lecture, I was getting the _good-_sex lecture."

"The 'good-sex' lecture?" he echoes in disbelief.

"Yep. My mother told me never to stay with a guy who doesn't know how to please me sexually, because it's something you just can't teach. Condoms were sort of a sidebar to the importance of, and I quote, 'finding a truly giving lover.'"

"That's…okay, that's sort of horrifying."

She snorts, lifting her cup to her mouth once again. "Try hearing it for the first time when you're twelve."

"Jesus." After a moment, though, the familiar spark of mischief that she adores appears in his eyes, and he licks his lips before taking a sip of his coffee. "And?"

"And what?"

"Have you taken your mother's advice to heart? Have you found a…'truly giving lover'?" His eyebrows waggle, and she rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, but I dumped him to date you instead."

He laughs, setting his coffee on the edge of her desk and pulling her feet into his lap. "Well, I can't tell you how thrilled I am to hear it."

As he begins to rub the arches of her feet through her socks, she moans, her head tipping back against the wall and eyes falling closed. "God, that feels good."

His hands still only momentarily before resuming their movement, a snort passing through his lips. "Careful. I have every intention of being a gentleman, given your bone-deep exhaustion, but if you keep making those sounds, I can't be held responsible for my actions." But he doesn't touch her with anything more than affection despite her inability to contain her verbal responses to his touch, and when she finally turns out the light and feels him curl his body around hers on her tiny twin mattress, the love she feels for him burns nearly as hot as the solid weight of him against her back.

* * *

"Gucci, Prada, Coach." Bella sighs as someone hits her with a behemoth shopping bag, and she snags her small purse from her hip and pulls it in front of her body, rearranging the strap so that it's across her torso diagonally instead of hanging from her shoulder.

"I really thought that three pairs would last you until at least Christmas," she says, leaning over her mother's shoulder as Renee considers a rack of shades and pulls a pair with fake rhinestones from the display.

"I spend a lot of time outside watching baseball," she replies. "Things get misplaced."

"Or sat on?" Bella guesses, and Renee huffs.

"Phil hit a homer with two men on in the season opener. I jumped up to cheer, and when I sat back down, I forgot I'd put them on the bleacher seat beside me. That's just being a supportive wife."

Bella laughs despite herself as she feels someone press against her back to get a better look at the table of replica watches set up in front of the sunglasses. She shuffles forward as much as she can without face-planting into the knockoff accessories.

"What do you think?" Renee asks, half-turning to show Bella the frames.

"Very…glitzy," she offers, squinting slightly as the bright spring sunshine catches on the gemstones glued along the arms of the glasses. "I don't know that they scream ballpark, but they do suit you." Renee nods in satisfaction, grabbing the sunglasses and plucking two more pairs from the rack. "I'd grab a few more," Bella offers. "Given that the three I bought you at Christmas didn't even make it to May."

"Good point," her mother replies, entirely unfazed by the teasing barb. Once she's paid the vendor and they've managed to extricate themselves from the crush of bodies, Bella glances up and down Canal Street.

"Did you want to get anything else? Bags? Belts? Jewelry?"

"I don't think so," her mother replies. "I promised Phil we'd meet him for lunch, so we should probably head back to the hotel."

"Okay," Bella replies. "This way." She leads her mother toward the subway station, weaving effortlessly between bodies, and they catch a train to go a few blocks uptown. They retrieve Phil from the hotel and hit Bella's favorite pizza place, both Renee and Phil gushing over the wonder that is New York-style pizza. Bella is just taking a sip of her soda and debating whether she wants to subject herself to the food coma that will result from eating a third slice when her phone vibrates in her pocket. She slides it out and grins at the display before flipping it open.

"Hey."

"Hey, I'm sorry to bother you when you're with your mom."

"It's okay. How are you?"

"Good. How'd your test go?"

"Okay, I think. It wasn't as bad as I was expecting, actually."

"Good," he replies, and Bella feels her mother tugging at her sleeve.

"Is that Tyler?" she barely-whispers, pointing at the phone. Bella rolls her eyes but nods, and Renee's excitement grows. "We want to meet him!"

"What are you guys doing?" Tyler asks, and she returns her focus to the phone, gently extricating her sleeve from her mother's fingers.

"Just finished having lunch. What are you doing? I thought you were working today."

"I was. I actually traded with someone. I, uh…okay, if you have plans, you can absolutely say no. But I thought since your stepdad was a baseball player…if you guys want to go to the game tonight, we can."

"What game?"

"The Yankee game," he says, as if no other game exists. "They're playing the Sox, so it'll be the usual bloodthirsty atmosphere. My dad's not using his tickets."

"The Red Sox or the White Sox?"

There's a pause, and she thinks she hears him laugh. "You really _don't_ know baseball, do you?"

"No."

"The Red Sox."

"Hang on." She tilts the mouthpiece of her phone away and focuses on her mother and Phil. "Do you guys want to go to the Yankee game tonight?"

Phil's eyes widen. "But they're playing the Sox tonight!"

"Right," Bella replies, nodding. "The _Red_ Sox."

"Hell yeah! But…wait. How are you getting last-minute tickets to a Yankee-Red Sox game?"

"Tyler's dad has season tickets." She turns her focus to her mother, whose eyes are wide. "Want to go?"

"Will Tyler be there?"

She laughs. "Yeah, Tyler will be there."

"Okay!"

"We're in," Bella says into the mouthpiece. "I'm pretty sure you just made their year."

"Charming your mother is my own personal final exam," he says, and flattery washes over her like a tide. "Want me to meet you guys at your dorm and we can walk to the subway?"

"Sure," she says. "Give us, like, half an hour?"

"Perfect. Oh, and don't wear anything red."

She laughs. "Why? Would I suffer grievous bodily harm?"

"Possibly, though it's far more likely someone would just throw beer on you."

"Thanks for the warning."

"See you in a bit. Love you."

"Love you, too," she says, flipping the phone shut, and when she returns her gaze to her mother and Phil, they're both staring at her, wide-eyed. "What?"

"The _Yankees_?" Phil breathes at the same time her mother almost screeches "_Love_ you?!"

"Yes. And yes." She picks her napkin up from her lap and balls it up before dropping it on the table. "Ready to go?"

By the time they've stopped by Renee and Phil's hotel room and made it back to Bella's dorm room, where she changes out of her pinkish-red top and replaces it with a navy blue t-shirt, Renee is very nearly vibrating with excitement. Bella feels as though she should plead with her mother not to embarrass her, but she doesn't have the energy to expend on a losing battle. When Tyler's two short raps sound on the wood of her door, Renee bounces up from the desk chair like an overexcited puppy. Bella crosses the small room and pulls it open, grinning when she spies Tyler in his trademark t-shirt and jeans, a worn and faded Yankee cap pulled low over his eyes, his hair sticking out from beneath it. "Ready?" he asks, grinning, and she nods.

"Ready." Glancing over her shoulder, she realizes Renee is almost leaning over it. "Um. Okay. Mom, this is Tyler Hawkins. Tyler, this is my mother, Renee Dwyer."

Tyler sticks out a hand. "Mrs. Dwyer, it's nice to meet you."

"And that's my stepfather, Phil," Bella adds, pointing over Renee's shoulder.

Tyler leans to one side, holding up the hand that Renee's not still holding. "Hey, Mr. Dwyer. Congratulations on the Clippers. They've got a good club this year."

"Thanks, man," Phil replies as Bella gently reaches out and pries her mother's fingers from around Tyler's hand.

They make their way to the station, and once on the train, the subway car is peppered with people in pinstriped jerseys and blue t-shirts with surnames that Bella doesn't recognize screen-printed in white ink. _O'Neill. Posada. Mussina. Rivera._ The only name she recognizes is Jeter, and that's only because she's been in New York too long not to. And because Charlie spends a good amount of time grumbling about how the guy would turn things around for the Mariners, if only Seattle had the cash to lure him away from New York. As the train snakes its way farther north, the number of fans headed for the ballpark grows until the car is crammed with people wearing Yankee hats and shirts; by the time the doors slide open at the 161st Street station, it feels like commuter rush hour.

They exit the train with the crush of people, and Bella glances over her shoulder to see Renee gripping Phil's hand tightly, her eyes wide as she watches the sea of bodies surge in the same direction. Bella slows slightly and leans back, half-yelling over her shoulder.

"Remember how you told me to ride the current when I was trying to body surf?"

"Yeah."

"Same principle applies," she says. Renee smiles slightly, and when she turns forward again, she sees Tyler smiling down at her. "What?"

He squeezes her hand in the space between them. "Nothing. It's just kind of fascinating, watching your transformation."

"My transformation?"

"Tell you later."

She feels like she knows what he's going to say – after all, she's spent hours ruminating over the changes in herself over the course of the past year – but she's curious to hear it from his perspective. The crowd thins slightly as the walkway widens, and by the time they're spit out onto the street, it feels like a typical city crowd instead of the sardine can it had moments earlier. They weave their way around the outside of the stadium, Phil and Renee and Bella laughing and pointing at all of the snarky t-shirt slogans dangling from vendors' stands. _Jesus hates the Red Sox. Fack Bawston. Red Sux._ When she spies one she doesn't understand, she points and tugs on Tyler's hand. "What's that one about?"

He follows her gaze to a shirt that reads _Boston: Babe-less Since 1919 _and chuckles. "The Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1919, and haven't won a World Series since. They call it 'The Curse of the Bambino.' Probably the worst trade in Major League history."

"But wasn't he pretty good?" She hears Phil crack up behind her, and Tyler follows suit. "Shut _up_, both of you. I'm trying to learn!"

Tyler lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of hers. "Yeah, he was pretty good."

"So why'd they trade him?"

Tyler shrugs. "Nobody really knows; it was all sort of mysterious. Some people said it was to pay a debt, or because the Babe wanted a pay raise they couldn't or wouldn't afford. Some say the owner did it to finance a Broadway play."

"Well, that seems stupid."

He grins. "See? You're learning already." A few minutes later, he veers to one side, approaching a vendor standing at a kiosk with navy blue t-shirts featuring a host of player names and numbers and a ladder of blue ball caps with the familiar interlocking "NY" logo. He points to a hat. "One of those, please." Glancing over his shoulder, he raises an eyebrow at Bella. "Come on. Find your size."

"Size?"

"They're fitted."

"She's probably a 6 3/4," Phil offers, and Tyler nods as the vendor reaches over and plucks one from the display. Without waiting for approval, Tyler slides it onto her head and grins. "Perfect fit." He nods in Phil's direction. "Good call."

Her stepfather shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

Tyler laughs. "I'll bet." He waves between them. "What do you guys want? Can't come to the ballpark and leave without something."

After protesting that the gesture is kind but unnecessary and ultimately surrendering to Tyler's insistence, Phil selects a Jeter t-shirt and Renee a pink hat like Bella's navy blue one. Once Tyler has settled with the vendor and the girls are wearing their hats, they make their way once more through the crowd, approaching the stadium. "Damn," she hears Phil breathe, and she looks over her shoulder.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "Bells, this is the holy grail for a ballplayer. Only thing better than watching a game at Yankee Stadium is playing in one."

She gives him a smile. "Well, you're one step closer," she reminds him, and he shakes his head, eyes traversing the façade of the stadium, the letters spelling its name standing out against the blue sky. When he doesn't respond, she glances up at Tyler. "Thanks for doing this," she says softly, and he smiles down at her, glancing over his shoulder before leaning down toward her and speaking directly into her ear.

"You have no idea what the sight of you in that cap is doing to me right now."

She flushes with pleasure, shivering slightly at the combination of words and rumbling voice against the shell of her ear. Craning her neck to speak into his ear, she murmurs, "Maybe I'll wear just it and nothing else later," and steps back to watch the effect of her suggestion. His eyes darken, his cheeks flush, and when he swallows, a surge of power runs through her. It might be the boldest thing she's ever said in her life, and his obvious reaction makes it more than worth it.

"Okay, you do realize that baseball games can last, like, three hours, right? That thought is going to torture me for the next 200 minutes."

She giggles as they reach the end of a line of people at one of the gates. "Anticipation," she says teasingly, and he groans but squeezes her fingers once.

"You're not staying in your mom's hotel tonight, are you?"

"I was hoping to stay with you."

"Thank God."

They reach the ticket-taker, who scans their tickets and waves them into the stadium. Once inside, Phil's awe only grows, and as Bella watches Renee watching her husband, something warm and understanding settles in her chest. Tyler is pointing out things as they make their way through the inside of the arena, and Phil is nodding like a bobblehead doll while Renee and Bella look on, amused. There are more vendors, souvenir stores, food stands, program sellers, and a sea of fans of all ages in replica jerseys and Yankee shirts. By the time they find their way to the quartet of seats along the first base line, Phil is still wide-eyed and wondrous, and Renee's focus has shifted from the stadium and her husband's reaction to Bella's boyfriend.

"Did you want to check out Monument Park?" Tyler asks Phil, glancing at his watch. "We still have some time before the game starts."

"You bet," Phil replies, and Tyler nods, glancing at Bella and Renee.

"We can grab food and drinks on the way back; do you guys want anything?"

Bella shrugs. "What do they have?"

Tyler grins. "Ballpark food. Burgers, dogs, popcorn, peanuts, fries. Absolutely nothing even remotely healthy."

"I'll take some fries and a Coke," she replies, then glances at Renee, who requests a beer and some popcorn.

The boys vanish, and the moment they are out of earshot, Renee turns to face Bella. "He's a_dor_able! Bella, you didn't tell me he was so _hand_some! God, they did _not_ make them like that when I was eighteen."

"Mom," Bella warns, feeling her cheeks burn even though no one – least of all Tyler, thank God – is around to hear her.

"Are you guys…" Renee trails off, waggling her eyebrows.

"Mom," Bella says again, shifting slightly in her seat.

"That's a yes," Renee says immediately, very nearly bouncing on the edge of her blue metal seat.

"What?! How can you tell that's a yes?"

"I just can. And you just confirmed it." Bella groans, and Renee beams as she continues. "And you're a smart girl, so I don't even need to ask if you're being safe, right?"

"Right," Bella mumbles, watching some guys in the now-familiar pinstripe uniforms throw balls back and forth in the outfield.

"Good girl. And…"

"And what?" she asks, still not looking at her mother and yet knowing all too well what's coming.

"And…how is it?"

"God, Mom, really?"

"It's important."

"It'sreallygood, okay? Can we talk about something else, please?"

"Really good? Like…he knows what he's doing?"

"Mom!"

"Sweetie, I just want to make sure. Because he's cute and nice, but you know…other things are important, too."

"He knows what he's doing. He's great. We're great. It's phenomenal. Can we move on now?"

"Oh, sweetie," Renee says, her eyes filling with glee. Bella imagines this must be what normal mothers look like when their daughters share that they're in love, or engaged, or pregnant – not when their eighteen-year-old daughters acknowledge that their boyfriends are really good in bed. A part of her is almost jealous, but an even bigger part of her just really, really loves her mom. And, for a brief, fleeting moment, she allows herself to be thankful that she was never given the option to choose a life that would have taken her relationship with her mother away.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Moving on."

Mercifully, Renee allows Bella to drag her focus away from Tyler's bedroom skills and toward a conversation about house hunting in the Midwest, and by the time the boys return, the sun has crept closer and closer toward the horizon, casting the sky in pastel hues above the white concrete facade. Bella leads toward Tyler. "What's with the white fence?"

Tyler smiles as his eyes scan the upper deck. "It's called the frieze," he replies. "There used to be a metal one around the upper deck, but when they renovated the stadium in the seventies, they took it out, so they replaced it with a replica one to keep the iconic feel of the stadium intact."

Bella grins at his profile, and when she says nothing, he turns to face her. Off her stare, his eyes widen. "What?"

"You could write pamphlets or something."

He blushes slightly, leaning forward to lift his cup from the ground and take a sip of soda from the straw. "Yeah, well. I asked my dad that same question a long time ago."

It isn't until he returns his drink to the concrete between his feet that Bella realizes he didn't get a beer. "What's with the soda?" she asks, and Tyler glances past her to her mother, who is engaged in conversation with Phil.

"Good impression," he murmurs into her ear, and she grins.

"Don't worry," she whispers back. "I'm pretty sure I solidified your good impression while you were gone."

"Oh, really? And how did you achieve that?"

"Remember the question I told you would be forthcoming the moment she met you?"

Blue-green eyes widen. "She didn't."

"Oh, she most certainly did."

"And?"

"Let's just say I thoroughly impressed her with my assurance that you know what you're doing in that department."

She can't tell if the look that crosses his face is more mortified or more preening, but she finds it endearing all the same. "Fantastic," he says finally, leaning back in his seat and watching as the players line up along the first and third base lines. On the announcer's cue, the people in the stands rise to their feet, and the opening bars of the national anthem begin to blare through the loudspeakers. Bella gazes around, taking in the sunset-hued sky, the white stadium "fence," the flags waving gently in the soft breeze, the army of men in white with blue ball caps over their hearts. Half the crowd seems to be singing while the other half simply stands in respectful silence, and as the final bars of the song fade out, she feels a sense of anticipation she's never felt before run through her. She doesn't care about sports, and she doesn't particularly care about the Yankees, so she wonders where, exactly, this unusual thrill is coming from.

"It's something, isn't it?" Tyler asks, plunking his hat back on his head as they retake their seats.

"What?"

"The atmosphere. Even if you don't like the game, it's tough not to get caught up."

"Yeah," she agrees readily, eyes once again scanning the crowd. As the first batter approaches the plate, his headshot and stats appear on a screen above the outfield, and the announcer's voice comes over the loudspeaker once again. She can hear a chant of some description coming from the bleachers in the outfield. When she can't quite pick it out, she leans toward Tyler. "What are they yelling?"

"They're doing roll call," he replies, shelling a peanut.

"Doing what?"

"They do roll call after the first pitch of the first inning," he replies. "They call each player's name until the player gives them a wave, then they move on to the next one."

Bella frowns. "Don't they find that annoying?"

Tyler chews slowly, as if considering it, before swallowing and retrieving his cup from the ground. "You know, I never really thought about it, but I don't think so. I think it's just part of the honor of getting to play at Yankee Stadium." She grins, and when he straightens from putting his cup back down, he frowns. "What?"

"Seriously. You might not want to tell your dad you still like them, but you're totally into this."

He mirrors her grin. "I know. I guess it's in the blood."

They settle to watch the game, the Yankees falling behind 1-0 in the top of the third inning, but rallying to score a run apiece in the fourth and fifth innings – the one in the fourth what Tyler calls a "solo homer" off of Bernie Williams' bat – to take a 2-1 lead. When the fifth inning ends, Bella rises and grabs her empty cup to head for the restrooms, but Tyler restrains her with a gentle hand on her wrist. "Hang on a second."

She glances down at him, a small frown creasing her forehead. "I'm just going to pee."

"I know. Just…hang on a second." Just as she's opening her mouth to ask why, a familiar refrain begins to play through the stadium's sound system, and she glances toward the field as the Village People begin belting out their beloved classic. She watches as a small group of men in white shirts begin dragging what appear to be boards behind them by strings, making their way toward second base from third. Their steps are in time with each other, and they're each slightly offset, making their line a diagonal. She lowers herself back into her seat.

"What are they doing?"

"Raking the infield," he replies. "Keep watching."

She does, and just as the song reaches its chorus and the grounds crew reaches first base, the men drop their strings and begin mimicking the familiar moves in time with the song.

"_Y-M-C-A!"_ they mime as the crowd joins in, and Bella laughs aloud, caught completely by surprise. They resume marching, pumping their free fists in time with the beat, until the second chorus comes and they drop their rakes to do it all over again. By the time they're back at third base and are dragging their tools off the field and past the side of the visitors' dugout, Bella is grinning from ear-to-ear. Mirroring her expression, Tyler nudges her with an elbow. "Told you. Okay. Come on, I'll take you to pee."

"I can go alone," she protests, and he rolls his eyes.

"What section are we in?"

She frowns. "Oh."

"Oh," he echoes with a short chuckle, and Bella turns to tell her mom where they're going before they pick their way along the row and up the concrete stairs. She follows him around the concourse, her hand entwined with his, cataloguing the food choices as well as the souvenir stores. When he catches her looking through the window at one of the larger memorabilia shops, he squeezes her fingers. "Want something?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"Just window shopping." She reaches her free hand up and flicks the bill of her new cap. "Besides, I'm all set."

His eyes flicker up to her hat before focusing on her face. "I do believe I've already mentioned the effect that particular accessory is having on me."

"You have," she agrees. "Though I have to say, this game doesn't seem like it's going to last three hours."

"Nope, it's a quick one," he replies. "For which I'm very grateful. Remind me to send Joe Torre a thank-you note."

"Who's Joe Torre?" she asks as they reach the nearest women's restroom, and he makes a pained sound as he releases her hand.

"Oh, God. I have so much to teach you."

"I'd say you've already done a pretty good job in that department," she says, rising to her toes and pressing a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw.

"Jesus. Okay, go to the bathroom. I know this stadium well enough to know that there isn't a supply closet I can drag you into, so I'm going to need you to stop torturing me until we can ditch your mom and I can get you back to my apartment."

She laughs. "Noted."

A few hours later, once they have in fact deposited Phil and Renee at their hotel and Renee has thoroughly embarrassed both Bella and Tyler through suggestive eyebrow-waggles and gushing adoration, respectively, they're wandering through the darkened streets toward his building, hands swinging between them. "Thanks for doing that," Bella says once more. "I'm pretty sure that was one of the best nights of Phil's life."

"I like them," he replies simply. "Your mom is a trip."

Bella laughs at the understatement. "That she is."

"Some things remind me of you, though."

She feels her eyebrows hitch slightly; she's so accustomed to being compared to her father – her reliability, sense of responsibility, her coloring – that to be likened to her mother is a surprise. "Really?"

He shrugs. "Your laugh. You kind of have the same laugh. And smile. And you both play with your hands when your minds are wandering."

"Really?"

"Really. Also, you both picked seriously cool guys to date."

At this, Bella laughs. "Actually, in my mother's case, Phil's the first seriously cool guy she dated after she left my dad about seventeen years ago. Good thing she kept him around; she married one really good guy when she was eighteen, and it took her another eighteen years to find another one."

"Maybe that's another thing you have in common," he says softly as they come to a halt on a street corner, waiting for the red "Don't Walk" sign to give way to its white counterpart.

"What's that?"

"Maybe you both found the guys you were supposed to keep around when you were eighteen."

Her brown eyes are wide when they turn on him, her mouth hanging slightly open, and he raises a nervous hand to run it through his hair before realizing he's still wearing his cap and settling for lifting the bill slightly before jamming it back down. "What?" she asks, and suddenly she's being yanked forward, Tyler's eyes focused on the pedestrian traffic sign on the opposite corner as they span the black-and-white-striped crosswalk.

"That…I didn't mean it like _that_," he mumbles, suddenly taking longer strides than she's comfortable keeping time with. "Like…_marriage._ That was stupid. I didn't mean to freak you out about that."

"You didn't," she only half-lies, trying to keep pace with him as she tries to pretend the concrete sidewalk isn't shifting beneath her feet.

"I just meant…" he trails off and blows out a frustrated breath. "I just want you to know I'm in this. That's all."

"Hey," she gasps, already slightly winded from the double-time pace he's setting. "Wait. I need to slow down."

He comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, wide eyes the color of an ocean staring down at her. "Seriously? I freaked you out so badly that you want to slow things down? I didn't _mean_ it like that, I swear—"

She raises a small hand and presses it gently to his mouth. "I meant the walking," she says, trying desperately not to laugh at his almost-crazed expression and uncharacteristic rambling. "I was having a hard time keeping up with you."

"Oh," he says, dropping his gaze and cupping the back of his neck. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Stepping closer, she slides a hand around his body, beneath his thin jacket and his blue replica t-shirt, and the cotton is slightly damp from the sweat gathering at the small of his back. "I'm in this, too," she says softly, tilting her head to one side in an attempt to drag his eyes back to her face. He complies, and she smiles. "I'm all in."

His shoulders drop slightly and he releases the breath he'd been holding. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She grins. "Besides, given that I told my mother you're a rock star in bed, how stupid of me would it be to kick you to the curb now?"

He chuckles lowly and leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. "A rock star, huh?"

"We're talking Hall of Fame caliber, I think. Not that I have anything to compare it to."

She feels him shake his head slightly against hers. "I kind of like it that you don't," he admits. "Does that make me a Neanderthal?"

"Maybe a little."

He chuckles. "I'm really going to miss you when you go back home."

"I'm going to miss you, too," she says, then realizes she hasn't shared with him the conversation she had with Charlie. "But you get to keep me until June."

He pulls back, all traces of uncertainty vanished from his eyes and replaced with something that looks like mischief and glee. "Oh, really?"

"Really," she confirms with a nod, and he grins.

"Guess I'd better make good on that rock star thing, then, so you don't forget me before I manage to get out to the West Coast."

Bella raises a teasing brow. "Do you really have intentions of sneaking into my childhood bedroom with my cop father down the hall?"

He tilts his head, as if considering. "Does he keep his gun loaded at home?"

"No. But that doesn't mean he doesn't know where the bullets are."

"True. But I figure I have at least fifteen seconds to make it to the front door if he does, in fact, catch us."

Bella laughs. "My bed creaks."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to know how you know that."

She forces her mind not to travel back in time to memories of a boy as heavy as marble. "I was a restless sleeper," she says softly, and he snakes his hand around his back to twist his fingers with hers.

"Not anymore," he says, peering down at her as if for confirmation, and she shakes her head.

"No. Not anymore."


	9. Chapter 8

**Infinite Visibility**

**Rating: **M.

**Acknowledgement:** Thanks to HollettLA, who I adore for so many reasons, not the least of which being that she thinks I might actually have a "fancy French version or a Shakespearean spelling" of a word, and that I'm not just an idiot who ignores the spellchecker sometimes. xo

**A/N: **Thank you, as always, for reading and for the lovely reviews. They mean so very much to me.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

The two weeks between the end of the semester and the end of the month fly by, and Bella tries desperately to soak up every second of Tyler's company before she has to board a plane and fly to the opposite side of the country. They spend their days orbiting each other and their nights wrapped around each other, and she tries not to picture her summer in Forks as a seemingly endless stretch of time in which he'll be here, without her, a piece of flotsam riding the current of this beautiful city she has come to love while she sits, stagnant, on the opposite coast, in a town in which she feels suffocated.

It isn't until the night before she's leaving, when she's waiting for Tyler's shift at the bookstore to end, that an entirely new and utterly distressing possibility occurs to her: that, in her absence, Tyler could move on. That distance could dim the bright flame of what they feel for each other – or, more frighteningly, what he feels for her – and that their fledgling love could be eclipsed by some other, brighter-burning blaze.

"Here it is," she hears the familiar voice say from a few aisles over, and she can't stop the sappy smile that takes over her face.

"Thanks _so_ much," comes a feminine voice in response, and Bella slides the copy of _Into the Wild_ that she'd been perusing back on the shelf. She walks softly to the end of the aisle, peeking around the shelving unit to see only the back of a girl with long blonde hair two aisles down. "My friend has been telling me for ages that I have to read this. Have you read it?"

"Yeah," Tyler's voice replies. "It's pretty good. Different. Are you into spiritual fiction?"

"Not particularly. I mean, my parents tried to push some Christian fiction on me when I was a teenager, so I think that turned me off."

Bella hears Tyler chuckle. "Yeah, that'll do it. No, this is more about…spiritual awakening, rather than adherence to doctrines. It's not bad, but it's definitely New Age-y. I mean…well, you've read _Walden_, right?"

"I haven't."

"Seriously?" She can hear both the incredulity and the smile in his voice, and a wave of insecurity she hasn't felt in a while bubbles up in her chest. "Now that's worth checking out, if you're interested in reading about spiritual discovery. It's more of a personal declaration of independence, with the focus on solitude and personal introspection rather than divine intervention."

"That sounds more like my kind of thing. Do you have it?"

"I'm sure we do. It should be just over here." Bella steps back slightly, but watches as first Tyler and then the blonde girl emerge from amid the shelves, turning away from her and disappearing down another aisle a few rows away. "Here we go," she hears him say a moment later, his voice somewhat fainter. "Did you want a hardcover or a paperback?"

"Um, paperback," the girl replies. And then, "Thanks."

"No problem."

"Have you worked here long?" Bella hears, and she frowns, creeping into the next aisle in an attempt to hear the words more clearly.

"A while," Tyler replies.

"That's awesome," the girl says, and Bella rolls her eyes. "I love this store."

"Yeah, it's pretty unique," Tyler agrees. "Can I help you find anything else?"

"Um, no…I think I'm good."

"Okay."

"But some friends of mine are having a party tonight. They're all literary types; I'm sure you'd fit right in." There's a pause, and then Bella hears, "Are you interested?" The voice has dropped an octave, the tone slightly huskier, and she hears the intended meaning behind the question.

_Is he interested?_

With barely a pause, his voice answers. "Actually, I have plans with my girlfriend tonight. Thanks anyway. Enjoy the Thoreau."

Bella sees Tyler slip out of the aisle and head toward the opposite end of the store, and she lurches backward, snatching a book from the closest shelf and flipping through it for a moment before peeking around the bookcase again. The blonde girl is watching him go, and Bella watches her for a minute until she hikes her tiny purse higher on her shoulder and makes her way toward the front of the store.

"_The Art of Happiness_," she hears an hour later, when Tyler finds her sitting in a corner, using her messenger bag as a backrest between her spine and the bookshelf behind her. She looks up, cataloging his soft gray t-shirt, name tag, messy hair.

Glancing down, she shrugs. "I was in the mood for something…spiritual." Looking back up, she spies the look of knowing amusement in his blue-green eyes.

"Hm. And what, pray tell, put you in the mood for that?"

She shrugs as he lowers himself to the floor beside her. "Just something I overheard."

"Bella."

"Does that happen a lot?"

He stretches his legs out in front of him. "It happens."

"A lot?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Every so often, I guess."

"Have you ever accepted?"

"Yes. Way before you. When I was single and looking for that kind of thing."

"That kind of thing?"

"One-night stands. Meaningless flings." He leans toward her and plucks the book from her hands. "That kind of thing." She doesn't say anything, and the residual amusement bleeds from his face. "You're actually upset about this?"

"No." But it's a lie, and they both know it.  
A faint spark of irritation clouds his eyes. "Bella, I'm in love with you. I'm not interested in anyone else."

"Even though I'm leaving?"

"You're leaving for the summer; you're not leaving for good."

"Still. Two months is a long time."

"Not really." She doesn't reply, and he sighs. "Bella, you don't have to worry. I'm not going to fall out of love with you just because you're out of town. I'm not that fickle." She likes the way he says "out of town" – as if she's going away for the weekend, and not for the entire summer. "I'm sort of pissed that you don't trust me."

She's instantly ashamed. "I'm sorry." She fidgets with the hem of her jeans until she feels his hand still hers.

"Look at me."

"It's not that I don't trust you," she says immediately.

"Then what is it?"

She presses her lips together, trying to find the words amid a sea of uncertainty. "I don't know."

"Bella, Jennifer Love Hewitt could walk through those doors and offer to blow me in the nonfiction section, and I'd still say thanks, but no thanks. I love _you_. You're the only one I want, whether you're in my bed or on the opposite side of the country. Okay?"

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

He meets her gaze. "What?"

"Nothing. I just…I guess I would have pegged you as more of a Cameron Diaz type."

He leans in. "I like brunettes. Petite ones. With pouty lips."

She bites back a smile. "Is this your way of hinting that you have a fantasy about a brunette blowing you in this store?"

"Maybe. But it's one brunette in particular, and she doesn't star in cheesy horror flicks."

Bella leans in, pressing her mouth to his. "Noted. Well in that case, maybe you should take me back to your apartment so that I can give you something to get you through the next two months."

But her words don't have the intended effect, and he draws back to look into her face, his blue-green eyes serious. "Bella, you believe me, right? I want _you_. No one else. I don't care about you leaving for the summer. I love you, and I'll wait. Okay?"

She smiles, missing him already, wrapping his reassurance around her like a cloak. "Okay."

He grins, rising from the floor and holding out his hand. "Now…I believe there's an offer on the table."

She accepts his hand and smiles as he pulls her to her feet. "There is."

* * *

Pleasure is still thrumming in her veins, thick and warm, and she sighs as she feels Tyler's body leave hers. "Shit," she hears him breathe, and her head comes up off the pillow.

"What?"

"I think it broke," he mutters. "Shit," he says again.

"What? Why do you think it broke?"

He's squeezing the tip of the condom. "It just doesn't seem…like a lot," he says, and his cheeks are stained pink.

"Well, I mean…that's the second time, right? Maybe there's…not as much?"

"Maybe."

"Is it…leaking?"

"I can't tell," he says. "The outside is, uh, pretty wet, too."

She blushes. "Oh."

"I think it's okay," he says after a moment. "We're okay."

She exhales heavily, her head falling back onto the pillow behind her as she gazes up at his spackled eggshell ceiling. "Okay." He disappears momentarily to discard the condom before returning to the bed, curling up beside her and sliding his hand along her bare stomach and around her hip. "Maybe…maybe I should go on the pill," she says softly, bunching up the sheet between her fingers.

"Maybe," he says softly, his voice slurred slightly with sleep and post-coital relaxation. "Do you want to?"

"I'll, um, have to find a doctor. I don't really want to ask my pediatrician back in Forks for a prescription."

A low rumble of a laugh comes from the pillow beside her. "Yeah, that's probably not the best idea. I'd hate for the Forks Chief of Police to have to fly all the way out here just to shoot me."

"That would be a needless waste of plane fare," she agrees, finding his fingers beneath the sheet and tangling their fingers together. Then, turning serious, "I'm really going to miss you."

His ocean-colored eyes slide open. "I'm going to miss you, too."

"I'm going to miss New York."

"New York is going to miss you, too," he replies, and as silly as it is, she is warmed by the idea of the city she has come to love loving her right back. "If I could FedEx you a Gray's Papaya hot dog, I would."

She laughs. "Yeah, I'm going to need you to look into that."

"I'll get on it." He runs his thumb along her palm. "When do you want me to come visit?"

She half-rolls toward him, placing the hand he's not holding flat against his warm torso to feel his heart thumping in his chest. "You were serious?"

"Of course I was serious. I'm coming – you just have to tell me when."

"Whenever you want. I'll be there."

"Do you guys do anything big for July 4th?"

"Not in the traditional sense. My dad is usually on call to make sure no local idiots blow anything up trying to set off fireworks, and our best friends live on a Native American reservation, so we don't exactly do the traditional 'sparklers and burgers and beers' celebration. But we go down to the beach and have a big bonfire, and Billy – that's Jake's dad – tells stories about tribal ancestors who fought for their country and various other tales about how Native Americans are proud Americans, despite the fact that the holiday is more about freedom for some than liberty for all. It's pretty cool."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I've never really thought about that."

Bella shrugs, feeling her nipples brush against the cotton of his top sheet. "Most people don't."

"Can I come then? For the Fourth?"

"You can come whenever."

"Okay."

"How much time do you think you can get off work?"

He shrugs, bringing their bodies flush together, and there's something incredibly intimate about feeling that part of him, soft and pliant, pressing against her, seeking nothing more than contact. She slides her feet between his. The room is humid, a hint at the coming heat of summer, and while she has mixed feelings about her return to Forks, she looks forward to the cool, crisp night air. "Probably a week or so."

"Okay," she says through a yawn, and he smiles softly, running his free hand over her ribs.

"You should sleep."

"I can sleep on the plane," she replies. "I'd rather stay awake with you."

His smile widens slightly. "I'm going to need a little time to recover." Her laugh is as soft as his smile, and they lie in the darkness, pressed together from chest to ankles. "Are you nervous?" he asks after a bit, his hand still skimming over her ribcage.

Her nose scrunches up as she frowns. "About flying?"

"About going home."

"Oh. Not really," she replies, surprising herself with the truth of it. At Christmas, she'd been anxious, unnerved, uncertain. She hadn't wanted to go back, to spend the holidays in Forks, and if it hadn't been for Charlie, she wouldn't have. Now, though, the only thing she feels is a faint sadness at the distance that she'll be putting between herself and Tyler.

"Good," he murmurs.

"Hey," she says, suddenly remembering. "You never told me what you meant when my mother was here. About my 'transformation.'"

She feels the rumble of his chuckle where their chests are pressed together. "You became the swan."

"Huh?"

"You know, from the children's book."

"I'm naked in your bed, and you're comparing me to the Ugly Duckling?!"

His laugh is nearly a guffaw, and he strengthens his hold on her when she makes a move to slip free. "Stop. Come here. I just meant that you've flourished. New York can eat people up, or make them hard, or change them in ways that aren't for the better. You…since I met you, you've…bloomed." He half-buries his face in the pillow beneath him. "That sounded cheesy," comes the muffled voice.

"It's better than comparing me to an unattractive member of the fowl family."

"I was trying to be punny," explains the still-muffled voice. "Y'know…Swan."

"Unsuccessful pun," she replies, but the truth of his comparison is one she can feel. "Hey." He peeks out, one blue-green eye visible, eyebrow above it arched in cautious expectation. "You're right. I…feel that way. Like I…grew a lot. Here."

He nods, rolling to his back but keeping hold of her hand. "You have."

"You're part of that, you know."

He rolls back toward her. "It might seem that way, Bella, but it's all you. It would have happened even if I hadn't been around for it."

She presses their bodies back together, thrilling in the now-familiar heat of his skin. "Regardless, I'm glad you are."

"Me too."

* * *

"I can't believe I'm not going to see you for the _whole summer_," Kelsey moans around a mouthful of pancake, and Bella laughs, her mind briefly dancing back to her roommate uttering a similarly despairing thought when she went home for the winter break.

"You can always come to the West Coast," she offers, and Kelsey's nose wrinkles.

"Yeah, I don't think I really belong in lumberjack country."

"You really don't," Bella agrees and catches Aidan rolling his eyes. "What?"

He shrugs, the hair on the left side of his head still matted from his pillow. "Girls are so dramatic. I mean, it's what…not even two months?"

"Bite me," Kelsey snaps, elbowing him sharply, and he winces. "Besides, I can't help noticing your boy hasn't unwrapped his arm from around her shoulders once, so I don't think I'm the only one being 'dramatic.'" She punctuates the word with air-quotes, and Aidan rolls his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure he's getting benefits from her that she's not sharing with you, so his clinginess is entirely warranted."

Kelsey elbows him again. "You're such a pig. No wonder you're single."

"I'm single by choice, thank you very much."

"Yeah, right."

Aidan holds a make-believe phone up to his ear. "Yeah, hello, pot? This is the kettle calling to ask when your last date was."

Kelsey is throwing him an absolutely murderous look, so Bella opts to intervene. "Thanks for having breakfast with us, you guys. I'm sorry it's so early."

"Shut up," Kelsey replies, pushing her pancake around her plate with her fork. "I would have bought you dinner last night, but I was assured that you had _plans._" Her eyebrows waggle on "plans," and she glances over to where Tyler is shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth with the hand not wrapped around Bella. He simply raises an eyebrow, saying nothing, and Bella leans slightly into his side.

"Well, I'm going to miss all of you guys. We're going to Corner Bistro for burgers as soon as I get back in August."

"Hell yeah, we are," Kelsey exclaims, then raises her coffee mug. "To Bella, who leaveth us for rural pastures."

"Forests, actually. There's not really much farming in Forks."

Tyler laughs and shakes his head as he raises his own mug. "To Bella."

* * *

"What airline?" the cab driver asks through the clear plastic partition an hour later, and Bella leans forward, only to be beaten to the punch.

"Northwest," Tyler replies. "Terminal 2."

"Okay," the cabbie nods, returning his focus to the maze of lanes leading into the airport, and Bella leans back against the black leather seat, her carry-on propped on her knees. Tyler's fingers are warm in hers, and she tries not to succumb to the melancholy that has been looming since his alarm went off hours ago, and she realized that, despite their best intentions, sleep had robbed her of her last few hours in his bed.

"Got your ticket?"

"Yep."

"Wallet?"

"Yep."

"Book?"

"Yep."

"My picture?"

She laughs, grateful, as ever, for his simple presence. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it as the cab lurches to a halt at the curbside drop-off area. She's rummaging in her backpack for her wallet when Tyler stills her hand, fishing his own out of his pocket. She opens her mouth to protest, but he silences her with a look, pulling money out of his billfold and sliding out of the car. She follows, watching as he and the cab driver lug her oversized suitcases out of the trunk and onto the curb; Tyler pays him and grabs her luggage, leading her inside the air-conditioned terminal.

Once she has checked in and unloaded her bags, they make their way past the security checkpoint and wander around the gate area, Bella buying a bottle of water and some snacks for the plane and Tyler trying to convince her to eat something before she boards. Finally, they settle in a pair of vacant seats, Bella's head on Tyler's shoulder as their hands trace shapes against each other's palms, the gate filling up around them.

"I should have made you a t-shirt," Bella muses, watching a woman trying to entertain two small kids in the row across from them.

"A t-shirt?" he echoes.

"To wear to work," she clarifies. "That says, 'My girlfriend bought me this.'"

He laughs, and she smiles at the sound. "I'll see if I can have one made." Then, his voice serious, he asks, "You're not still worried, are you?"

"No," she answers truthfully, tilting her head back to look up into his face. "I'm just going to miss you."

"Ditto." He lowers his mouth to kiss her, and she ignores the fact that they're at an airport gate, a swirl of travelers around them, and focuses instead on the heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the taste of his tongue. She relishes in the warmth of his hand curled around the side of her neck, the stubble grazing against her chin, his fingers tangling in her hair. When he pulls away, faintly breathless, his eyes are intense. "Thirty-two days between now and July 4th."

"That sucks."

He laughs. "But doable."

"Definitely doable."

She rests her head in the space between his neck and collarbone, and not nearly enough time passes before the gate agent's voice comes over the loudspeaker to announce that they're getting ready to board the flight. She stands, and Tyler hands her her backpack, and when she rummages around in it to fish out the Yankees cap he bought her and pull it on, he mock-groans. "Great. That's going to torture me for the next month."

She grins. "I'm counting on it."

"Devious."

"Now boarding rows thirty through thirty-seven," the voice says, and she shrugs into her backpack.

"What row are you?"

She glances at her ticket. "Twenty-one."

"I'll miss you," he says, banding his hands around her waist.

"I'll miss you, too."

"I love you."

Her chest suffuses with warmth. "I love you, too."

"Call me when you get home, okay?"

She nods, waging a valiant battle against tears. "I will."

"Rows twenty through thirty," the attendant says, and he presses a kiss to her lips, then another to her forehead.

"Safe flight," he says, releasing her.

"Thanks." She rises to her toes, kissing his lips before joining the small crowd of people moving toward the door. She peeks over her shoulder and he's still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her go. When she hands her ticket over, she takes one last glance, and he raises and eyebrow and a hand in farewell.

And, when she finds her window seat in row twenty-one and looks back toward the terminal, the windows are slightly mirrored, leaving her unable to see inside, but she knows, somehow, that he's standing there, watching her go.

* * *

Once Tyler arrived in her life, essentially eclipsing everything else, Bella hadn't spent too much time thinking about whether or not Charlie was missing her from the other side of the country, so it isn't until she steps off the plane and into the gate area at SeaTac and his shoulders visibly relax that it occurs to her to feel guilty.

"Hi, Dad," she greets, and Charlie – undemonstrative, reserved, rough-around-the-edges Charlie – grabs her in a crushing bear hug.

"Hey, kid. Missed ya."

"Missed you, too." Her voice is muffled against the familiar dark cotton of his police uniform, and she lets herself relax into the hug.

He holds on to her for an uncharacteristic extra beat before releasing her, giving her a once-over and burying his hands in the pocket of his worn Levi's. "Good flight?"

"Yeah."

He nods and they fall into step beside each other as they make their way toward baggage claim, exchanging the familiar small talk that had peppered her life in Washington. On the drive from Seattle to Forks, he catches her up on the local news: that the high school won the state football championship, that they're getting a new police station, that Jake has been maintaining her truck so that she could use it when she came home for the summer. Bella doesn't miss the hopeful note in her father's voice when he mentions Jake, but while it used to make her uncomfortable and irritable, now she just laughs.

The truth that her heart belongs to someone else is, for the first time, something she doesn't feel the need to apologize for, and for the hundredth time, she marvels at the freedom she has found in, as Charlie himself once put it, loving what's good for her.

Indeed, the morning after her arrival, she awakens to the familiar roar of her truck's engine, and when she peeks out through her bedroom window, she sees Jacob's form bent over the open hood of her rusted truck. After quickly brushing her hair and teeth, washing her face, and slipping into jeans and a t-shirt, she grabs a mug of coffee from the kitchen and slips out the front door.

"Hey, stranger."

Jake's head emerges from beneath the truck's hood, and he grins up at her. She feels a familiar affection settle in her chest, the comfortable warmth of old friendship that she had never really felt before Forks. Her mother's transient life meant she was never really in one school long enough to foster significant friendships, and she is instantly grateful for the genuine friendship she was able to find with Jake, despite their admittedly rocky beginning. "Hey there, city slicker." He pulls a grease-stained rag from the pocket of his jeans and swipes at his hands, taking a step away from the engine as Bella descends the stairs. "Welcome home."

"Thanks," she says, smiling, even as the word doesn't quite ring true. _Home_. She nods toward the truck. "How's she looking?"

"Good as new," he says, only half-kidding, and she grins as she perches herself on the small running board between the driver's door and the rear tire well. Taking a sip of her coffee, she peers up at him. If it's possible, he seems to have grown even more in the time since she last saw him, and she can't help wondering if he's phased recently, and what the pack's life has been like since the mass exodus of vampires from the immediate vicinity nearly two years earlier. "You might need some new…" He trails off, hitching a teasing eyebrow. "If I actually name the part, what are the odds you'll know what I'm talking about?"

She makes a show of squinting up at him, as if in deep consideration. "Probably nil," she admits finally, taking another sip from her mug.

"I figured," he says, returning the rag to his jeans pocket and lowering himself to sit on the concrete driveway, folding his ankles and propping himself up on his hands. "So."

"So."

He grins, white teeth nearly blinding in the dark skin of his face. "Tell me about New York."

She matches his grin. "What do you want to know?"

He shrugs. "You still like it?"

"I love it."

He smiles. "Good."

"Seriously, Jake, it's just…it's so…_alive_. I mean, there's always something going on, there's always something to do, or something to see, and everyone's different, you know? There's no mold to fit – it's just…people are who they are, and there are so many people that you can find someone who gets you, even if you might not be able to find that anywhere else." She remembers, fleetingly, how she'd felt so much like a misfit on her arrival in Forks, and so much more like one after Edward left. With the possible exception of her first few months in New York, when she was still learning the place, she has never felt like that in the city.

"Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Found people who get you?"

She smiles. "Yeah."

One dark eyebrow lifts. "Yeah?"

"I mean, my roommate, Kelsey…she's awesome. She's an artist, and she's really cool. We get along really well, which doesn't always happen with college roommates."

When she doesn't continue, his second eyebrow joins the first. "And?"

"And what?"

"Bella, I haven't seen you smile like that in two years. I hope you don't expect me to believe it's because you get along with your roommate."

She can feel the telltale color creeping up her neck, and she attempts to hide it behind another sip of coffee, but Jake's looking at her knowingly. Finally, she rolls her eyes. "And there's a guy."

"There it is." Jake's face relaxes back into his easy smile. "Jesus, you have no poker face."

"Shut up."

"He's not a vampire, is he?"

"No."

"I like him already."

Bella laughs, and as she does so, is struck by a realization: it's the first time she has ever laughed with Jacob about her ill-advised romance with the undead, and she can see her own surprise mirrored in Jake's face when he grins. "You would like him. He's…great."

"Great, huh?"

"Yes. Great."

He shrugs. "Well, I already prefer him to your last boyfriend, so I'll take your word for it."

She smiles. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Imprint on anyone yet?"

He looks away, and she can see a small muscle near the hinge of his jaw twitch. "Nah."

Bella feels fleetingly sorry for him and leans forward, propping her coffee mug on her knee. "Well, my roommate is single. Maybe you should reconsider visiting me in New York."

Jake chuckles. "I'll think about it." He tilts his chin in the direction of her mug. "Now, how about you finish that disgusting stuff and let me buy you breakfast at the diner? You can tell me all about your new human boyfriend and your big, bad city, and I'll catch you up on the five minutes' worth of news that have happened since you left."

She laughs as she rises. "Deal."

The simple act of slipping into the cab of her truck brings with it a cavalcade of nostalgia: damp hair and mittens, the windshield fogging up as the ancient defroster struggled to keep up, her orange-yellow backpack laying on the seat beside her. A pearl-skinned, ethereally beautiful boy in the passenger seat.

"Ready?" Jake's voice cuts through her reminiscing, and she nods as she slips the key into the ignition.

The trip down memory lane continues, however, the moment she sets foot inside the Forks Diner. Cora is pouring coffee into the mug of one of Charlie's deputies at the counter; the not-quite pink half-curtains still hang from brass rods at the windows; the wood-paneled walls are still adorned with black-and-white vintage photos of various local scenes. And, as the bell jingles on the closing door behind them, Bella spots a familiar face turning to spot her and Jacob standing just inside it.

"Bella?" Angela's eyebrows hike up behind the frames of her glasses, which have changed from their former pale pink to a sleek black.

"Angela. Hi." Bella sees her former classmate excuse herself from the table she's sharing with her parents and approach her, and she feels an unexpected swell of guilt for all of the messages she has ignored since her departure from Forks last September.

"Hey!" Angela replies, reaching out to pull Bella into a hug. "It's great to see you!"

"Thanks. It's great to see you, too." Bella feels awkward and uncomfortable, and she can feel herself slipping back into old-Bella: fidgeting, unable to make eye contact, entirely uncomfortable making small talk. She half-expects Jessica to appear beside Angela, tossing out barely-disguised bitter barbs at the Cullens, and Edward in particular. The thought of Edward immediately morphs into a thought of Tyler, and Bella can almost feel her spine straighten, her shoulders drop, her chin lift. "I'm really sorry I fell out of touch. This year was…kind of crazy for me."

Angela's eyes go soft, and she smiles. Bella had almost forgotten how genuinely kind Angela always was, how open-minded and friendly, and she feels a second swell of remorse at her unthinking willingness to discard her friendship entirely. "Hey, I totally understand. Freshman year was nuts. I just…wondered how things were going for you. How you were liking New York."

Bella is grateful for Angela's tact, for the fact that she doesn't put voice to the truth behind the concern swimming in her dark eyes: that her friend – perhaps her only true human friend in Forks – was worried that, beyond the watchful eye of her father and the concern of her small cluster of peers, that she'd fall down the post-Edward rabbit hole once and for all. "I really love it," she replies, and a smile she doesn't even have to reach for breaks across her face. "The city's amazing, and I've met some really cool people. You should totally come for a visit or something, if you're ever on the East Coast."

She surprises herself with the invitation, so it's no wonder that Angela's mouth pops open and her eyebrows rocket up her forehead. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I mean, I know New York is a long way from UCLA, but…you know. Anytime."

"Awesome. Thanks, Bella." Angela grins, and Bella returns the smile easily. "Well, anyway, I'll let you guys get breakfast. It was great to see you."

"You too," Bella replies, following Jacob to an empty table in the far corner.

As they sit, Jake leans forward. "Yeah, see, I never understood why you wanted to hang out with bloodsuckers when you had perfectly nice human friends at that pale-face school of yours."

"Yeah, well, the pale-faces might have said the same about my tendency to hang out with a werewolf," she reminds him, and he grins as he relaxes back into his chair.

"Touché."

* * *

It's no wonder, with all of the nostalgia and the unintentional trips down memory lane, that the second night back in her bed, she dreams of Edward. For a change, though, there's no blood, no death, no terror. There's no fear, no panicking, no Charlie bursting into her room in the middle of the night to quiet her screams. There's just a hazy mirage, eerily reminiscent of the way he would appear to her in hallucinations after he left, and though she tries to decipher the reason for his sudden reappearance in her subconscious, tries to determine if he's actually trying to say anything to her, he simply hovers, watching her like a ghost. She wanders through her dream, through familiar landmarks – the Cullens' property, the forest, the meadow – and all the while, he floats nearby, saying nothing, doing nothing, just watching.

It isn't until she steps out of the dream meadow and onto the dream curb of a city street to find Tyler leaning against a lamppost waiting for her that Edward's specter disappears completely.

* * *

Four days after her return to Forks, the first package shows up. A padded manila envelope with her name handwritten on the front in black felt-tip ink, she frowns slightly until she sees the return address: T. Hawkins, 7371 E. 9th Street Apt. 4F, New York, NY 10014. Her heart flips in her chest as she tugs at the flap; what spills into her hands is a worn paperback with a sticky note attached to the cover. The book is _Love in the Time of Cholera_. The note reads, _"I'm glad I didn't have to wait until old age to make you mine."_

Two days later, a postcard arrives: on the front is a printed reproduction of a watercolor of the Strand; on the back, he has written simply, _"New York misses you."_

The next day, another package, another book; this time, _The Bridges of Madison County._ The note is typically Tyler: _"Personally, I think this book is wildly overrated, but most women readers seem enamored. Anyway, I was told that every woman should read it, so here you go."_

Three days later, a leather-bound journal. There's no note, but when she opens the cover, he has written on the first blank page.

"_Bella,_

_I was reading over my recent letters to Michael the other day, and I realized something: since you came along, the tone of them has changed. It's hard to explain, except to say that, for the first time in a long time, it feels like I have something happy to tell him about. Anyway…there's freedom in putting thought to paper, as cheesy as it sounds. Fill this up with things to tell me when you get back. I miss you. New York misses you. My bed misses you._

_I love you._

_Tyler"_

In the weeks that follow, Bella finds herself settling into a routine: hanging out with Jake during the day and making dinner for herself and Charlie at night. She talks to Tyler each night before bed, her cell phone growing warm against her ear as she curls up beneath her sheets, wishing that he were curled up beside her. Her days are eerily reminiscent of her time in Forks after the Cullens' departure, with one notable exception: her heart is whole.

She talks to Kelsey every so often, though their talks are relatively brief, and she calls Tyler whenever a package arrives. She can hear the pleasure in his voice when she admits that she agrees with him on the undeserved hype surrounding _The Bridges of Madison County_, and the smug timbre of his voice makes her miss him sharply, a sudden ache blooming in her chest.

"So," she breathes into the phone one night mid-month. "Tell me what you did today."

"Not much," he replies, and his voice is low and rough through the phone. She loves that she can tell just by listening to him that he's in bed, and she imagines his mismatched sheets, his pillow-flattened hair, his stubbled jaw. His words are ever so slightly slurred, and she imagines him out with Aidan, downing just enough beers to get giggly and pink-cheeked. "Had dinner with my family."

"Your mom and sister?"

"And my dad."

Bella feels her eyebrows hike. "Really? I thought you said they don't really see each other."

"They don't really," he replies. "Just for…milestones and stuff."

"Milestones?" She's momentarily panicked that today is the anniversary of his brother's suicide, but then she remembers that his brother died in May, that there was a morning at the end of the semester that she woke near 6 a.m. to find Tyler already gone, that he spent nearly four hours at the diner, that she'd been on the verge of setting out to find him herself when Aidan finally told her why he was gone.

She hears him sigh through the phone. "It was just…sort of…my birthday."

"WHAT?!" she screeches, then immediately freezes, listening for the sound of her father waking and coming to check on her. When the house stays silent, she hisses into her phone, "Today is your _birthday?!_"

"Well, technically, yesterday was my birthday," he reminds her, and she glances at her clock, realizing that it's nearly two in the morning in New York.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demands, feeling guilt crash over her. "I can't believe I didn't know when your birthday was."

His voice goes faintly muffled, and she imagines that his mouth is half-hidden in his pillow. "I don't know. I don't really get off on birthdays." Suddenly, she remembers: Michael killed himself on his twenty-second birthday. Today – or, technically, yesterday – Tyler would have turned twenty-two. She still feels awful, but manages to restrain herself from pushing the issue. Instead, she tries to make her voice sound sultry.

"Well, what _do_ you get off on?"

There's a brief pause, and she can just picture his faintly dilated pupils, the slightly befuddled look on his face as he attempts to decipher her meaning. "What?"

"Forgetting your birthday doesn't make me a very good girlfriend, and given the distance between us, there's not much I can do to make it up to you right now. Except…" She lets the word hang there, feeling vulnerable and bold and terrified and empowered and like a virgin all over again.

"Except what?" he asks, and he's slightly breathless.

"Except…whatever you want."

"Bella," he half-moans, and she smiles as she gets up and crosses her bedroom to lock her door.

"Tell me," she whispers, sliding back into bed.


End file.
